Study in Moonshine
by StaroftheDunedain
Summary: What happens to Raylan when he's tracking an international terrorist with the niece of Sherlock Holmes? Deductions, gunshots, and just maybe, true love. Follows my oneshot "Just a Hobby" makes more sense if you read that first. Rated for themes/language.
1. I See Them Long Hard times to Come

_AN: So, this Raylon/OC. Becky. I wrote her backstory if anyone is interested. __From Small Things Momma, Big Things One Day Come__ I don't wanna be redundant, so you might want to read that. But it's not necessary. _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Becky, Agent Walker, and the briefcase._

Everyone in the county knew that the Old Cutter place was a meth lab. Depending on who was telling the story, it was either God's Gift to or Satan's Curse on Letcher County, Kentucky.

From their porch, Joe and Billy had heard the sounds of a vehicle before they saw one. No one was expected, but desperate people had been known to just show up. Besides, the last time they'd been investigated, a cop had disappeared. That had been six months previous and no one else unwelcome had come calling since.

So they weren't too worried. The woman who stepped out of the old, battered, red pick-up was well dressed, beautiful, and definitely NOT a Kentucky native.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she said in an Israeli accent. (Not that the Cutter boys recognized it).

"Evenin'," Joe said curiously, looking up and down the stranger from the top of her French braid to the bottom of her designer boots. "You lost, Ma'am?"

"Not if this is the Cutter Brother Meth Lab." She looked around interestedly. "Where do you cook it?" She motioned behind her to the dilapidated barn. "In there? Or are you stupid enough to cook it in the house?"

"Now hold on a second, Honey," Joe said harshly, while Bill shifted uneasily next to him. "You're talking a lot about somethin' serious. We don't appreciate nosey strangers."

"I expect not," the strange woman said with a calm expression. "Still, I do need to know. It will make it so much easier (she pulled out a gun and aimed it, giving both men a cold smile) to clean up after I kill you."

Just like that, she shot them both through their hearts. They didn't even have time to be scared. She looked at her handiwork with satisfaction and whistled.

In response, three men jumped out of the truck bed. "Victor, Karl," she ordered two of them, "the lab is most likely in the barn. Find it whereever it is, throw them into is, and set the fire. You should know the drill by now."

With grunts of effort each, her henchmen took a brother each over their shoulders and started toward the barn.

"Aaron," she said to the last one. "You take the one in the backseat."

The dark-haired man said nothing. Instead,he picked up the body of the boy who had been unlucky enough to see their faces when he gave them directions. He was about twelve-years-old, fair-haired, and he had a bullet hole between his blue eyes.

Miri Eshel smiled, lighting a cigarette just as the barn went up in flames as a match was tossed in among the volatile chemicals. This was really too easy. She was almost bored. Almost.

Mentally, she checked the names off of her list. That was one county cleaned out. Which meant that she needed to move onto Harlan County.

She didn't forsee a problem.


	2. On This Lonely Road

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything belongs to either FX or BBC or whatever lucky people own Justified and Sherlock. Not me. :( If I did, Raylan would never have gotten involved with Wynona and there would have been more than three episodes of Sherlock Season One..

Beta by JustWhelmed.

Raylan walked into his boss' office when he was called. "What's going on" he asked when he saw the tired look on the older man's face.

"You know those fires that've been going on in Letcher County?" Art asked, pouring himself a whiskey.

"Meth labs. Going up in flame with the owners dead inside 'em?" Art nodded. "Four so far, right?"

"Five. Another one got torched last night. Three more dead."

Considering that they were meth dealers, Raylan wasn't too shook up. "What's that got to do with us? Thought the theory was some rivals. Local police's job."

"That's what I thought too." He sat down heavily in his chair, feeling his age more than usual. "Until I got a call from Interpol early this morning."

"'Interpol'? As in the International Police?" Raylan just stared at his friend. "What the hell?"

"Apparently, they've got a lead, think it's some sort of international terrorist..."

Raylan snorted. "In Kentucky? In backwoods Kentucky? This is the theory."

"I know, but, the guy on the phone seemed pretty sure. He's coming in soon to explain. And, since this is still technically a fugitive, it's still in our jurisdiction too."

Raylan groaned. "Collaboration investigation." It was every law enforcement officer's worst nightmare. The amount of paperwork needed induced migraines in everyone who ever attempted it and the pissing matches over territory and collar rights were equally bad. "You're assigning me this case?"

Art just smiled and raised his glass in a mock salute.

"That why you're drinking before ten?" Raylan teased.

"Nope. Last explosion-kid was inside. Local boy, named Carter Novack. Thirteen. Brains blown out first with a handgun just like all of the dealers." Art topped off his glass and put the bottle back in its drawer. "I just got a look at the autopsy photos."

That made Raylan just a little sick to his stomach. After a moment of awkward silence, a young guy in crisp suit showed up at Art's door, neatly stepping past Raylan leaning against the doorjam.

"Agent Walker," Art said cordially.

"Deputy Mullen," the agent said equally politely. (Maybe it was just Raylan, but these guys were getting younger everyday) "Marshall Givens?"

"Raylan."

Agent Walker got right to the point, handing each of the other men a copy of the same file out of his black leather briefcase. "Miri Eshel."

The face looking back at Raylan was lovely but cold, like a black-haired ice queen.

The Interpol Agent continued speaking. "She's Israeli, served in the Army like everybody, got a taste for violence I guess. After that, she went to Europe where she became the suspect in four bombings, one of them a synagogue."

"Religious motives?" Art asked.

"Monetary," Walker corrected. "She'll kill for any side that has enough cash. She's also the suspect in over a dozen assassinations."

"Why would she be in Kentucky?" Raylan asked. "It's pretty far from Rome or wherever she usually holes up."

"A few months ago, Interpol and a couple of English detectives were really closing in on her. She figured it out and disappeared. Probably thinks she's off our radar here." He shook his head. "She would've been if not for coincidence and bar security footage. One of the detectives we worked with in England got a look at the tapes and called us."

Walker gave the other two men a sympathetic look. "I don't envy you guys, dealing with this Eshel nutjob. I was two years in Iraq and this chick scares the shit out of me."

"Wait, hold-up," Raylan interrupted. "You're not working with us on this?"

"No, I have a flight to Serbia to catch." Walker picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. "We've got a civilian coming in, if you can call her that. She's the one we worked with earlier, who picked up the pattern, got the footage, and called us."

"'A civilian'?" Art repeated slowly. "Are you serious? That's so irregular that irregular ain't even a good word for it!"

"I know it seems that way, but Farrow Brett is a professional. And a genius. She's bringing in a waiver and it's all been approved by her government and ours. Trust me," Walker did his best to assure them, "you want her on your side. Good day, Marshalls."

"Well," Raylan said after Walker left, "that's weird."

"Whole damn thing is weird," Art groused. "Just, go back to your desk and wait until Einstein gets here." He finished his whiskey and thought about pouring himself a second. He didn't.

Raylan just nodded and did as he was told. As he stared blankly at his computer screen, he wondered what Becky would make of all of this then felt like kicking himself.

Why the hell couldn't he get her out of his head? Yes, she was intriguing, mysterious, brilliant even. In memory, she was almost an enchantress with her raven hair, gray eyes, and her ability to read a man like he was nothing more than a book to be picked up at her leisure. Yes, she had listened to him -the first person to really do so in what seemed like years. True, there were parts of her story that were tragic and made her seem like a vulnerable kid.

Still, damnit! He'd met the damn woman once in a bar two months ago. He'd only talked to her for a few hours. And obviously, she had not though it was worth sticking around to pursue because she had been gone when he finally made it back three days later.

He groaned quietly, rubbing his palms over his eyes. This was really getting stupid.

Someone perched on the edge of his desk. He didn't look up, expecting it to be Tim there to bug him about his bad luck getting the case.

Then he heard a low, English voice say "who's the woman?"


	3. Strap Your Boots On Tight

**AN: Sorry for the long break folks, exams and another fiction. But I'd never forget this one. :) Disclaimer: I don't own anything but Becky, the evil scumbags, and a beat up car. Beta by the lovely JustWhelmed. Oh, and, SpadesJade, that was the best review I've ever gotten. Thank you. **

_"Who's the woman?"_

Raylan's head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "Becky?"

He wasn't absolutely certain that he wasn't hallucinating. Because, perched on the corner of his desk and smiling like it was normal was the girl he'd spent far too many of the past weeks thinking about. "What're you doing here?"

"Working," she said calmly. He noticed that she had a file in her hands. "With you, actually."

"Wait, what?" He shook his head to clear it. "You're on the Eschel case."

"Yes," she said with a small smile. "My uncle is a detective. He, John and I all worked this case when Eschel was in Paris."

Raylan looked at her suspiciously. "You never mentioned that you're a private detective."

"I also never mentioned that Becky is my middle name. Well, Rebecah. Anyway, my uncle is the official detective. Not me." The look she gave him was completely inscrutable and somehow made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. "I did think about you, Raylan."

"Right," he said, ignoring her last statement and standing up. "Art wants to see you in his office."

She nodded, following him silently.

Art looked up when they walked in. "Miss Brett?"

Becky nodded with a smile. "Pleasure to meet you, Deputy Mullen. I've got everything you need to see before you let me go to the crime scene here in this file." Art started to get up to take the papers from her but she stopped him. "Here..." She walked around the desk. "No need to bother that trick knee of yours."

He stared at her. (Raylan had a feeling this was going to be a common occurrence on this case) "How did you...?"

"Leg weights," she said, pointing at the small corner of one peeking under the desk. "Only one. Medical then." She stepped away slightly, cocking her head to the side like a blackbird. "You've bought pants one size too big, trying to hide the brace you've got as well. Too much fold at the knee. I'd say you were just losing weight, but you've got a Krispy Kreme on your desk so no." She gave a small, slightly charming smile.

It crossed Art's mind that he should be offended, but she gave him a small smile. "That and you don't need to."

He laughed, knowing he'd been charmed and not caring. "Impressive."

Becky opened her mouth to say something else. Probably something brilliant about Art's life and then there'd be one more man under her spell. Raylan didn't need that.

"If everything's ok, can I take Becky to the crime scene now?" (Part of him knew that he was being unfair to Art, but he didn't give a damn.)

"'Becky?'" Art repeated slowly, eyebrows approaching his receding hairline. "Miss Brett, would you please step outside for a moment?" The instant the door shut, he rounded on his Marshal. "You know this girl?"

"I met her once, in a bar. No big deal," Raylan said in a calming tone that didn't even slow Art down.

"Don't you dare sleep with this girl, Raylan," Art warned. "Your ex-wife and a witness are bad enough, don't you dare sleep with your partner."

"One, she is not my partner. Two, I would not be the least bit interested in sleeping with her if she weren't off limits," Raylan said defensively. Partly to defend himself from his boss and partly from himself because he knew damn well that second point wasn't true.

Art nodded slowly. "Okay, boy. Just be careful. I know you and I know you around beautiful women. Stupid."

"Thanks, Art, can I go now?" Raylan replied with obvious sarcasm. "We've got a terrorist to start tracking down."

Art just waved him out.

Becky was sitting in Raylan's desk chair. She wasn't touching anything, wasn't even facing his desk, but her being in his space annoyed him. "Come on," he said, grabbing his hat and bumping the chair. "We're leaving."

She scrambled out of the chair. "Coming."

He was walking quickly but her long legs kept up easily. "Where are we going again?"

"Don't tell me you forgot?"

"No." She shrugged. "I don't forget things. But I was trying to start a conversation."

Raylan snorted.

Becky stopped suddenly, tugging on his arm with a surprising amount of upper body strength, making him turn around and face her. "Are you pissed at me, Raylan?"

"No," he lied. "I just don't like amateurs wandering around and screwing up my investigations."

She gave him a look that was a mixture of anger and hurt that shouldn't have made him feel guilty but did. "I am NOT going to screw up any investigation because I am bloody well NOT an amateur! I know what I am doing and the reason that I do is because we get called in when the police are too stupid to solve their own puzzles!"

"Fine," Raylan said evenly, turning his back on her and starting toward the elevators. "Well then, Detective Brett, you'd better go ahead of me and show me how it's done. I'm sure you'll do my job better than I can."

"Don't be boring," she snapped, standing as far away from him as it was possible in the elevator.

They got off at the garage and she led the way to his car without error, having remembered his exact car and having worked out where he would park it from the way he tied his laces or whatever thh hell.

The first hour of the drive was extremely uncomfortable, at least, it was for Raylan. Becky had the strange ability to remain absolutely still. She didn't move, didn't fidget. She just sat there, jaw set but face blank otherwise. Like a marble statue with some black curls on top. Or a corpse. It was creepy.

Eventually though, she was the one who broke the silence. "I didn't think our reunion would go quite this way, Marshall."

"How'd you think it would go?" _Did you think I would just kiss you and fall into bed with you?_

"I didn't think we'd fight."

"We wouldn't be if you'd stayed."

"I couldn't stay and you could've called."

Just then, Raylan pulled up at the still smoking wreckage of the recently burned down barn. "Agh! Stupid people, trampling all over the scene!" Becky was out of the car before it had completely stopped.

"Yeah, 'cause firefighters are complete idiots."

She grimaced. "Sorry. That was a bit not good. I got a smidge caught up in Uncle Sherlock's usual rant." She looked up at Raylan shyly from under her long eyelashes. "It's my first solo police investigation. Everything else I've done myself has been for clients."

She looked incredibly young when she looked at him like that and he felt some of the anger melt off. "I understand that."

She nodded and walked off to the barn, poking along the smoldering remains. It looked to Raylan like any other burned down building. Somehow, he got the feeling she was seeing more.

Despite the fact that she had apparently taken still lessons from a rock, Becky was incredibly agile. She clambered over the boards, not seeming to feel the heat and not seeming to be bothered by the fact that her ground was wobbling.

He told her once to be careful, but she'd just laughed. "You should try running on a ten story rooftop in London while being chased by a rabid chimpanzee."

Eventually, she paused on a pile of lumber, flopping down cross-legged despite the shaking. "Baggie please!"

Raylan'd carefully picked his way over to her and stood under her slightly wiggly perch. "What'd you find?"

"Cigarette." She put it in the plastic and gave it back to him. "It won't have DNA because of the heat, but it was kept intact under the body."

She was looking a lot happier than he thought the clue demanded. "How do you know a cop didn't drop it after the bodies were removed?"

"Because I don't know a single American bobby who smokes French cigarettes. Eschel's usual methods are to hire local help. If won't get them in the dock or anything, but the brand might help us later on."

Raylan looked at the contents of his bag skeptically. "Looks like every other cigarette I've ever seen."

"It's not," she replied confidently. "I wrote a piece once on the differences between 300 types of fags."

"I'll bet you were a joy in school," he mumbled.

Becky laughed. "It was for fun."

"See, that's just weird, Becky."

She shrugged. "Normal's boring."

"I like normal."

"Which is exactly why you became a United States Marshal instead of a banker." She stood up and looked down at him with a mischievous smile.

"Touche," he said with a touch to his hat brim. "But I'm a lot more normal than writing essays about cigarettes."

"It's a monograph," she corrected.

Her laugh was cut short by a gunshot followed by her loud curse as she tumbled off the pile of lumber, clutching her thigh, blood seeping between her fingers.


	4. Clean the Scars Up

AN: Sorry it took me so long to get this out but life happened and I wanted to make this chapter worthwhile. It's still not my best work and I apologize for that. Thanks Sophia and SpadesJade for the wonderful reviews. Betad by Justwhelmed. She's awesome.

Raylan's first reaction was to duck behind the pile of lumber. "Becky?"

"Bugger!"

"You ok?"

She made a funny noise that was half-way between a laugh and a moan.

_That doesn't sound good_ he thought, scrambling over to her, gun drawn and at the ready. No new shots rang out but that was even more dangerous. Someone smart.

Becky was sitting on the ground, trying to tear the sleeve off of her shirt one handed.

"Here." He took out his knife and cut it off of her, noticing that she didn't flinch when the blade passed close to her skin. "How bad does it feel?" It didn't look that bad but he wanted to gage her reaction.

"I'm not going to lose the leg," she mumbled, watching him tie the bandage, accent getting stronger-either from pain or emotion he didn't know. "Ta," she said with a weak smile.

He nodded, carefully sliding past her. He took a deep breath and, crouching to make himself as small of a target as possible, dashed toward the trees. A bullet whizzed past his ear. "Shit!" He dove behind a tree, waited.

Nothing.

He knew approximately from where the shot came. Hopefully, he'd be able to get behind the shooter. Something burned hot in his gut that he suspected had everything to do with Becky's blood staining her porcelain skin. Raylan had the feeling that the intensity of that burning would scare him later, but now he just wanted to shoot the miserable bastard hiding in the woods.

He picked his way through the trees carefully, attempting to cross his way silently. He was usually very good at it. He'd grown up hunting in these lands and it wasn't often he met a better predator.

This time, however, he did.

Edging up the hill, Raylan was taken by surprise by a blow to the side of the head and an arm around his throat. He clawed at his attacker but the pressure never wavered.

"Hello," said a very calm voice in his ear. A man's voice with a strange accent, Israeli. "I take it you are the policeman in charge of this investigation."

"Marshal Raylan Givens," he choked out.

"I'm not out for your blood. My warning is sent regardless." The pressure released and red spots danced in front of his eyes. He dropped to his hands and knees, gasping. In the three minutes it took him to catch his breath, the gunman was gone.

Raylan stood on slightly shaky legs. He remembered the other man's words and sudden fear shot through his heart. "Becky!" He ran down the hills to find her sitting exactly where he left her.

"You look a bit rough," she observed. "And I'm the one who got shot."

"I got strangled," he replied.

"Come again?"

He related the story while checking her bandage. "Any idea what that was all about?"

"Peter Yavneh, Eschel's, I dunno, slave, lover, pick one. He's always on her jobs, her most trusted helper. You were lucky." She frowned when he stood and held out his hand. "He's former Moussad and he could easily have killed you."

"Gee thanks."

"Fortunately, he's not the blood thirsty one. We'd both be dead if Eschel had been here."

"She might still come; I have to get you out of here. You're the one he was after in the first place. And I feel really stupid just standing here with my hand out."

Becky ignored his offer and tried to stand on her own. Her face turned white. She crumpled with a grunt. "Damn!" She smacked the ground then regained her normal, calm expression. "I'm alright, Marshal. It's not serious. I just wasn't expecting the cramp." She gave him a wan smile. "I don't need a doctor. I just need a moment."

Usually, he would ask about her mindreading but he figured his train of thought was pretty obvious this time. "Well, I don't think we have a moment."

She actually squeaked when he scooped her up bridal style. "This is NOT dignified! Put me down!"

"Nope." It looked like she was thinking about kicking and she was tall enough that she would cause problems if she chose to fight him and the whole purpose was to save time. "Behave, Becky, or I swear to God that I will carry you over my shoulder like a sack of coal."

She huffed, but that was an apparently sufficient threat to keep her still. Although, she did pout. It was actually incredibly adorable. Raylan just laughed. She frowned, considering sticking her tongue out. But that would be extremely juvenile and so she decided against it. She couldn't stop the humph though when he finally set her down.

"Alright, get in Princess." It came out with a lot more affection than he meant it to.

"I am not a princess," she said with a slight amount of mischievousness in her tone. "Just a vicountess."

"Wait really?"

She smiled smugly and shut the car door.

Raylan rolled his eyes. He wanted to ask more questions, but knew that he needed to call Art.

It probably would have been an interesting conversation had the majority of his attention not been divided between staying on the road and watching Becky stare thoughtfully out the window, leg seemingly forgotten.

It was decided that Raylan would go back with Becky to her place and stay there with her, protector.

"I've got a feeling," Art said," that that girl is the only way this case gets solved."

"Mmmhmmm."

"And don't sleep with her damnit! She'd eat you alive!" Art added before hanging up.

"Hilarious," Raylan muttered, hoping to hell she didn't hear the chief. If that half smile was anything to go by though, she did.

Her hotel was in the middle of the closest town but it was still dark by the time they got there. Becky was able to walk in by herself, limp barely noticeable.

The first thing that struck Raylan about the room was that it was small, one bed, a chair, a side table, and a lamp. It was clean, with books and journals and clothes hung up in the tiny closet. There was also an old-fashioned looking teddy bear on top of the bed.

"You have a teddy bear?"

She nodded. "Bernard."

"I'm not gonna ask." He locked the door behind them and shut the blinds, wiping his hands nervously on his jeans. "I really need to look at that leg, Becky."

"Alri-" She stood and unbuttoned her slacks. Before Raylan could stop her, she was stepping out of them. Her expensive dress shirt covered her panties but that was about it. She plopped on the bed. "First-aid kit's under the sink."

"Right." He looked at her long, long legs for a moment. "I'll just go..."

She was giving him a look of concern. "You ill?"

"You just got half-naked."

"You said you needed to look at my leg."

"I didn't expect you to get half naked."

She looked critically down at herself. "Is something wrong with them?"

"What? No. Do you really not get...?" He shook his head. "Nevermind I cannot believe I am having this conversation." He retrieved the kit and settled on his knees next to her.

Becky didn't make a sound. She didn't even flinch when he cleaned the deep graze with antiseptic even though it had to hurt like a bitch. He looked up and saw her mouthing when looked like random letters.

"What's that?" he asked as he applied the bandage.

"Hm, oh, the notes in Mozart Flute Concerto in D Major. It relaxes me."

"Naturally."

She smiled. "It's really complicated and the first piece I mastered."

"Oh, you play?"

"Mmhmm." Becky looked down at the hand still on her thigh. "Raylan?" Her pretty gray eyes looked at him slightly confused. "Why are you still touching me?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he slid his fingers through the silky curls at the nape of her neck, gently tugging her in for a kiss.

She knocked his hat off and mirrored his action, running her hands through his hair.

When they pulled apart, she blushed and rested her forehead against his. "My Uncle John," she said quietly, "was in hospital. That's why I left. I was going to wait for you. For a while."

He sat on the bed next to her, putting her head on his shoulder. "Why didn't you leave your number? I would've called."

She moved to look back up at him. "I did! With Paul, the other bartender. " At Raylan's blank look, she smacked the bed. "The bloody git!" Honestly, you tell a man that he needs to stop seeing his girlfriend or you'll tell his wife and he tries to ruin your love life!" She shook her head and looked at him with a smile from behind her inky curls. "I forgive you for not calling me."

He chuckled. "Thanks, Becky, I appreciate that."

She looked down at their clasped hands, studying them intently. "Is this normal?"

"Not really."

"I didn't think so." She stood up, grabbed her teddy, and plopped into the chair. "Personal distractions aside, we need to work on this case."

Head reeling slightly at the sudden shift, Raylan nodded. "Right. You hungry?"

"No."

"Well, I'm starved. I'll order takeout. You like Chinese? You can eat it later."

"I do, I like to predict the fortune cookies. I'm not as good at it as Uncle Sherlock. But don't order anything for me. I don't eat when I'm working on a case."

"Never?"

"Just tea. Oh, could you make me a pot?"

"Suuuure," he looked around the small room at a loss.

Becky smiled. "Nevermind. I've got it under control." She got up and put a small copper pot on a hotplate on the bathroom counter. "It's just as well, only Brits know how to make real tea."

Raylan watched her go through the methodic, almost rhythmic steps. It was almost soothing.

"And that's how you make a proper cuppa. Now," she returned to her seat with a steaming mug. "Tomorrow, I need to see Boyd Crowder."


	5. Rules to this Game

AN: Sorry this took so long. RL is super busy. Bridesmaid this summer. Anyway, here's the next chapter. I promise that six will be more case related. Thanks for the wonderful reviews. Reviews are crack for authors.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except Becky (don't tell her that). I don't even own Bernard. But thanks JustWhelmed for letting me borrow him. And for betaing this mess. :)

Raylan had discovered a Coke in Becky's fridge and was helping himself when Becky said Boyd's name. He choked and nearly spit it out. "What did you just say?"

"I need to see Boyd Crowder."

"Why in the hell do you need to see Boyd Crowder?"

"Because, I did my homework already. I know that Boyd Crowder was in charge of the methamphetamine trade in Harlan County. I know that Letcher County and Harlan County drug pushers are on particularly bad terms." Becky took a sip of her tea and smiled at her own handiwork. "Eschel's not out here slaughtering drug dealers in a misguided attempt at a public service. There is some bloke paying her off."

"And you think it's Boyd?" He took a sip of his Coke and wished it was bourbon.

She shrugged. "It's a good place to start."

"Look, I know Boyd Crowder. He's a complete scumbag but this isn't his style. He wouldn't hire out. If he decided to end the feud, he'd do it himself."

"Then people would certainly come looking for him," Becky argued. "Hiring Eschel would be much more subtle."

"We are talking about a man who once took out a church with a rocket launcher." Raylan toed off his boots and sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. "He has no problem with being unsubtle."

Becky looked at him with her head cocked to the side like a curious bird. "Interesting."

"What?"

"You've completely failed to mention the fact that Crowder's supposedly changed his ways. He might want to help."

"Look, Becky, pig shit doesn't stop stinking just because the pig changes its diet and Boyd Crowder will never be a good man. People don't change like that. And especially not Boyd Crowder."

"You have something in particular against him?"

"Did I mention that he's an evil, lying, sneaky son-of-a-bitch?"

"Not in those exact words, no." She looked at him over the rim of her tea cup an irritatingly knowing smile playing at her lips. "You might as well tell me, Raylon, I'll know soon enough."

"I just don't like the guy."

"And that has nothing to do with the fact that he's sleeping with the woman you left for your ex-wife whom you then didn't keep."

Raylan slammed his Coke down on the nightstand. "Why the hell do you do that?"

"Generally, people ask me 'how' not 'why'."

"Why?" he repeated. "Why play a game like that? Why not just come out and say it without the questions?"

"That question applies to you as well. Why not just come out and answer my questions?"

"Why ask in the first place? It's not exactly your business."

She sank back into her chair a little more, deflating slightly and looking incredibly young. The teddy didn't hurt with that image. "I didn't mean to pry. Sometimes. I wasn't this time. I can't turn it off." She gave him a tiny smile. "I apologize. I forget sometimes what's not good. Uncle John is working on that with me but," she shrugged. "Uncle Sherlock's influence doesn't help. He's worse than I am."

"Hard to imagine," he muttered, earning himself a quiet laugh. "It's fine by the way. Apparently, you thought my feelings toward Boyd were relevant to the case and that is your business."

"So, what I did, that was good?"

"The sticking your nose into my business was acceptable this one time," he corrected. "The playing head games was not."

"Duly noted."

After a moment of silence, Raylan laughed. "We get into more fights that any two people ever should who aren't in a relationship."

"We are in a relationship, Raylan."

Becky apparently had a talent for making him choke on his soda. "Excuse me!"

"We're working on this case together aren't we? We are in a relationship."

Raylan nodded and chuckled. "I didn't mean that kind of relationship."

She gave him a confused look.

"We're not sleeping together," he clarified.

"Yes we are," Becky replied. "We're sharing this room tonight."

There was a brief period of silence wherein Raylan gave her a slightly panicked look until she took pity on him and laughed. "Relax, Raylan, I'm not that socially hopeless." she scrunched up her nose in a way that was really, disturbingly adorable. "Speaking of which, could you reach into the top drawer of the dresser and toss me some trousers?"

Raylan had forgotten. He didn't understand (which was a normal feeling around Becky) how he had forgotten the pair of long, slim, pale legs currently bare across from him but once his attention was redirected, it was difficult to look away. "Uhm, sure, ok."

He was surprised by how faded and ratty her pjs were-old, holey tee shirts, plaid pants with frayed hems and jam stains. He was expecting silk or satin considering that Becky wore a designer blouse and jeans to tend bar.

"Weren't you hungry?" she asked while she tugged the pants up her legs. As much as he regretted losing sight of them, it was amusing to watch her holding her bear in her teeth by its ear in an attempt to get dressed without leaving the chair.

"Oh, right." He'd forgotten that too somehow. "Do you have a phone book?"

"No. Could you hand me my jumper?"

"Your what?"

She sighed. "My sweater," she enunciated carefully. "That fuzzy, green, lumpy article of clothing currently residing at the foot of my bed."

"I know what a sweater is thanks," he replied sarcastically, tossing it at her head. His eyes widened when it looked like she was going to just take off her shirt. "I'll just see if the office has a phone book."

_Why am I leaving? _He thought as he closed the door.

After 15 minutes of the doddering hotel manager's stories of the Chinese neighbor he had in 1967, Raylan was finally able to order his Kung Pao and the chicken lo mein he was hoping he could convince Becky to eat. His stomach growled in depression when he learned that it would be a 30 minute wait.

He stopped on the way back to the room to get a couple of Cokes out of the machine. He wished he had a beer.

When he reopened the door, he couldn't stop himself from laughing out loud. "Your sweater is eating you!"

She tugged it over her knees in a surprisingly self-conscious gesture. "It was my Uncle John's. His Gran made it for him. He gave it to me the week I moved in with him and Uncle Sherlock."

"That was kind of him."

"Fairly normal for Uncle John, actually. You'd like him."

"I'm sure that I would."

They lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence. Becky sat there and thought, holding Bernard the Bear. Raylan lay on the bed, looking through Becky's stack of books; several true crime novels, forensic and psychology textbooks, and, strangely enough, a copy of The Catcher in the Rye.

Only ten minutes late, the delivery man arrived. Rather, the pimply faced, gum-chewing, sullen delivery kid arrived but he had the food so Raylan gave him a smile."Didn't bring any beer did you?"

"No. $10.93."

"Wow, you're even worse than Becky."

"I heard that!"

"You were supposed to." He paid the kid $15 and dodged a flying pillow. "Hey! Don't assault an officer of the law!"

"Gonna cuff me, Raylan?"

He blinked. "I, uh, I..." he shook his head to clear it of **that **particular image. "I bought you chicken lo mein."

"I told you that I don't eat on a case. Digestion slows the thinking process."

"Oh, really? Well, what clues do you have to think about?"

"Not many," she admitted.

"Well, then, come eat." He had spent enough time with her to recognize the stubborn set to her jaw. "If you don't then I'll just pester you so that you can't think anyway."

She rolled her eyes and heaved a great, longsuffering sigh but joined him on the bed. "I've heard this conversation before. Between my uncles." She was adept with her chopsticks. Raylan decided to cheat and use his fork. "Uncle John will put on his army doctor voice and eventually Uncle Sherlock will eat at least some of his takeaway."

"You really love your uncles don't you?"

"Yeah. I mean, John is actually Sherlock's best, erm, only friend. But, I guess, Uncle Sherlock has taught me everything I know about deduction and working a case and he's a good man, but..." She laughed. "He's even more anti-social that I am. John's taught me everything I know about people and how to relate. I realize that I don't always do a good job but people have stopped accusing me of being a sociopath."

"Are you homesick?" Raylan asked quietly.

Becky shrugged. "I guess. I miss my uncles and London itself. The bustle of the city, the press of all those people, the alleys, the rooftops, even the smog."

"I don't know what that's like," Raylan said quietly. "I never wanted to come back to Kentucky."

"You should come to London with me sometime," Becky offered.

That was not an entirely unwelcome idea so he didn't say anything.

Becky stole a piece of his chicken and said, "May I ask you a personal question?"

He retaliated by poking her in the leg with his fork. "Shoot."

"Are you still in love with Ava? Or Wynonna?"

"That's not what I was expecting." He didn't really want to answer but Becky was looking up at him with her big gray eyes and he caved. "I honestly don't know with Wynonna. Part of me misses what we had. But a bigger part if me realizes that she only loved the pieces of me that were normal, safe. The pieces that took her dancing or drove her places. She didn't like the pieces of me that put on a badge and a gun every morning. That scared her. And those are the biggest pieces."

"And Ava?"

His smile was bitter. Even he could tell it. "I know that I did not treat her right. I feel guilt."

"So, why does that make you hate Boyd so much?"

"He really is a scumbag," Raylan reiterated. He ran his hand through his hair. "Pride I reckon. A scumbag treats her better."

Becky just nodded. Raylan didn't know if she sympathized or if she was just filing away another human reaction.

"Do you really think Boyd has something to do with the case?" he asked quietly.

Becky shrugged. "I don't know. He might. If he does and we do not make inquiries then more people could die. If he does not then we cancel a possibility and we are still better off."

"All right," he said with a pit in his stomach. "I'll take you to see Boyd in the morning."

"Thank you," she said seriously, as if she sympathized after all before she grinned, showing off her perfectly white teeth. "Ask a friend to join you on your next voyage."

"What?"

"That fortune cookie." She pointed to the one he had absently picked up out of the bag.

"You can't seriously predict fortune cookies." He tore open the plastic and broke the cookie. Sure enough, the scroll inside read"Ask a friend to join you on your next voyage."

"I'll be damned. Do it again."

"You will plant the smallest seed and it will become the greatest and most mighty tree in the world"

"I'll be damned," he repeated in awe when she was right a second time. "How in hell's name did you do that?"

"That one," she said with a smug smile, "I will never reveal." She yawned suddenly and gave him an accusatory look. "I'm tired."

"How is that my fault?"

"You made me eat. Which makes me sleepy. And I don't like to sleep when I'm on a case either."

"Too bad. It's healthy. You need it."

"Health is boring," she protested, helping him throw away the trash. "Are you tired?"

"Yeah kinda." They both stood and stared at the elephant in the room. Well, the single bed anyway.

"Where are you going to sleep?"

"Floor," he said decisively.

"We can share." Only Becky could say that and not sound seductive. Whcih was kind of seductive. Raylan's head hurt.

"No, I'll take the floor."

"Suit yourself." She yawned again and flopped down onto the mattress. "I hate sleeping on a case."

Raylan just smiled indulgently and ignored her.

"Could you hand me my bear?"

He did. She tucked it under her arm and rolled away from him. "Do you want a bedtime story too?" He joked.

"Piss off."

He laughed and picked up the Salinger book. Directing the lamp toward the chair, he made himself comfortable. By the time he was five chapters in, Becky was sound asleep, rolled over onto the side facing him.

He closed his book and looked at her, just looked. She was different when she was sleeping. The constant animation, life, intelligence usually sparking along her face, her very being were replaced by a kind of peace. She looked young. Young and beautiful.

She wasn't a classic beauty exactly. Her face was a little too narrow, her nose a little too long, her mouth a little too small but she was still beautiful.

"You're something, Becky," he mumbled.

She stirred slightly at the sound of his voice. "Rayl'n?"

_Wow, she's a light sleeper. _"It's ok, Becky," he whispered soothingly. "Don't wake up."

She nodded and rolled over. Raylan pinched the bridge of his nose and felt the tiredness creeping in. He looked down at the floor and made a face. He looked back at Becky and the vacant half of the bed.

"_What the hell_." He took off his over-shirt and socks but kept on his wife beater and jeans. He slid into the empty place next to her and closed his eyes, sliding into a dreamless sleep.

AN2: I started thinking of this plot before Boyd officially went back to the dark side. So, from here out, it's kinda AU.


	6. Fighting for My Soul

AN: I'm sorry if the British/tea stereotype is outdated or offensive. All of my British culture knowledge comes from BBC America and, on Sherlock itself, they drink a lot of tea. I am also sorry for the time. Boyd is a bloody stubborn git who refused to be written. Thanks to my beta JustWhelmed for a: making this readable and b: keeping on me about my time. P.S. If anyone knows a list of normal British expressions for things, Private Message me. :) And thank you to everyone who reviews and sticks with me on this... You are all awesome. And, yes, expect a cameo at some point...

Disclaimer: I don't own Justified or Sherlock (dang it) although Conan Doyle's characters are public domain by now.

Becky hated waking up. Sherlock and Mycroft were the same way. It seemed like Holmes family curse-being forced to suffer those few awful blurry moments when the mind stopped transmitting data.

Naturally, this morning was no different. She felt the felt the scratchy motel sheets and smelled the detergent mixed with her own shampoo and a cologne that was vaguely familiar. She shifted a little bit and realized that her legs were trapped.

A bit more awake, she risked a peek under the sheets. She saw a masculine, bluejean clad leg hooked over her thighs and felt a warm hand on her waist. She laid her own hand on top of his, fingers between his. It was a comfortable feeling, one that she was far too sleepy to analyze. She liked the feeling of his chest expanding with each breath at her back, the way the callouses on his hands rubbed on that little bare patch of skin between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her pants.

She was certainly too tired to analyze that.

Raylan stretched and his leg slid off of hers. His hand tightened for just an instant on her hip and then he was awake. Fully and completely, sitting up and starting to get ready for the day awake.

"You're bloody disgusting," she mumbled.

Raylan was looking down at where she attempting to _burrow_ under the covers. "Not a morning person I take it?"

Becky just let out a little moan and snuggled deeper into the pillows until just a little thatch of curls was visible. Damnit, why did she have to be so cute sometimes? "Coffee?"

She pulled the covers down just enough to glare at him. "I'm English! Coffee is never an incentive."

"Well, I am not making tea." Raylan said. "But I'll bring you a cup of caffeine from the machine in the lobby. It'll mean you get to Boyd's faster."

She pulled the covers up again and mumbled something that Raylan decided to interpret as "ok." It could also have been "screw you asshole" but he was an optimist.

He was almost out the door when there was a flurry of movement from the bed. Becky had shoved all of the blankets down and sort of rolled out, looking vaguely like pissed off kitten. And, wow, that was kind of adorable too. Damnit.

"I'm having a shower," she announced regally, stalking off towards the bathroom, slamming the door at the sound of Raylan's laughter.

He was only gone for 15 minutes but when he got back Becky was out and dressed in black slacks and a pale blue, short sleeved blouse that clung to her curves on all the right ways. She was toweling off her curls and slipping on her shoes.

"Wow," he said, putting her cup on the table. "I've never seen a woman get ready that quickly." He could pretend that was all he was admiring.

Becky smiled and dropped her towel. "I assure you, when I am not working I tend to be a complete hedonist. Long bubble baths, silk sheets, hours in bed, that sort of thing."

"No ratty jumpers?" He teased.

"Well, I keep the ratty jumpers," she amended, taking a sip of her coffee. "Gah! How do you drink this?"

"Using those same American guts and courage that we used to beat y'all in the Revolution."

"Guts at least." She patted his stomach. "That must be made out of cast iron."

Raylan just drank her coffee too. "We'd best be going. We don't wanna give Boyd a chance to slink out of town." He expected her to grab some lipstick or a hairbrush but all she did was grab her wallet and her phone out of yesterday's pants and followed him out the door.

"I'm gonna need a Rosetta Stone to understand you," he mumbled, automatically opening the car door for her.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Becky asked, giving him a grateful nod as she slid into her seat.

"It's just-I know two kinds of women. The kind who dress well and carefully and spend an hour on their hair and make-up. And the kind that throw on the first thing they find in the closet and don't give a rat's ass about the rest."

Becky smiled. "I don't really care if people think I am attractive. I care very much if people think I am professional and competent."

"And you are the first woman I've ever met who didn't care if men find her attractive."

She shrugged. "Some do, some don't. I have no say in it and and nothing I do will ever change it so why care? Do you like Jazz?"

Raylan blinked at the abrupt change of subject. "What?"

"I found an excellent jazz station on the radio when I was driving around in my lorry." Her hand hovered over the radio dial, looking over at him questioningly.

"I don't know if I like jazz," Raylan answered honestly. "Never much listened to it, more of a bluesman."

She pushed the button, taking that as a yes. "Well, this is Thelonius Monk." she explained. "He's actually one of my favorites."

They passed the rest of the longish drive in an absorbing conversation about jazz-the artists, the nuances, the differences between it and blues. It wasn't surprising to Raylan that Becky was knowledegeable about her topic, but he was surprised at her knowledge of obscure American blues artists.

They got to Ava's (it didn't matter that Boyd lived there too, it was always going to be Ava's place to Raylan) just as Ava was taking a glass of lemonade out to Boyd's spot on the porch. He was sitting in a wooden rocking chair, clothes covered in the dirt from the freshly tilled garden Raylan could see nearby even though his hands and face were clean.

When Raylan pulled up, he could tell that Boyd and Ava recognized the car, even if they couldn't see very well through the tinted windows. Boyd never showed emotion if he didn't want to, but Ava's distrust and dislike were clear. It hurt a little but mostly because he knew that he deserved it.

He got out first.

"Marshall," Ava said coldly, standing straight, like a soldier at attention. "What do you want?"

"To talk to Boyd," he answered plainly. "'Bout those murders one county over."

Boyd hung his head for a moment. "Raylan, I had nothing to do with those and I'm too damn tired to have this discussion with you now. If you'd care to come back tomorrow, I will listen to you pontificate upon the flaws in my character to your heart's content."

"Unfortunately," Becky said from just behind Raylan (startling everyone since no one had seen her get out of the car) "time is of the essence. Mr. Crowder, I believe your innocence and I truly do regret troubling you and Ms. Crowder like this. But lives are at stake."

Boyd and Ava both stared-well dressed English women being something of a rarity in Harlan County, Kentucky.

Boyd recovered first. "I cannot recall, ma'am, that Ava and myself have, as of yet, had the pleasure of an introduction."

"Becky. Becky Brett," she answered with a charming smile that didn't really reflect in her eyes.

"Are you a Marshall?" Ava asked, still suspicious.

"No, Ms. Crowder, I'm just someone who knows something about a few things." She gave a delicate shrug. "I've been conscripted, as it were."

Ava laughed. "Well, I can understand that. Come on up and talk a spell if you want." Becky glanced back meaningfully at Raylan and Ava just motioned him up as well.

"Thank you," Becky said, sitting on the porch rail opposite Boyd. "If you'd like to go back to your baking, Ms. Crowder, I will not feel like the neglected guest."

"How did you...?"

"Flour on your dress, chocolate smudge on your upper arm," Becky explained, turning her full attention to Boyd as Ava disappeared back inside. "Do I need to explain the situation, Mr. Crowder?"

"Boyd. And, no, I read the papers." He leaned back in his chair as if he didn't have a care in the world. "And, Becky, may I call you Becky?"

_No you cannot. _Raylan thought to himself but Becky nodded.

"Well, Becky," Boyd continued, ignoring the way Raylan's jaw was clenching at his use of her first name. "If you believe that I am not involved, then why are you here? Not that your company is anything but enjoyable, I do not mean that. But it is confusing."

The look she gave him showed that she was not fooled by his flattery in the slightest. "Information."

"Ah, so, you need to know who is committing these atrocious acts?"

"I already know that-an Israeli ex-patriot by the name of Miri Eschel. I want to know who is paying her tab. And I want to know who is supplying the local help."

"What makes you think that I know anything?"

"I may be a London native, Boyd, but I did not come to Kentucky yesterday," Becky said disparagingly, and much to Raylan's amusement. "And I was not born yesterday either."

"If you're so well-informed than why don't you do additional research on your own?" Boyd asked carefully, testing the waters as it were. "Why do you need me?"

Becky snorted and tossed her hair over her shoulder, steel-colored eyes narrowing into a formidable glare. "Don't be boring, Boyd. I don't need you. Your help would make the process swifter, but make no mistake. I would find out what I needed without your help." She smiled then, smugly. "But you need me."

"Oh, I need you do I?" It wasn't very often that Boyd felt ignorant. He didn't much like it. "Care to enlighten me as to why?"

"Redemption."

Raylan felt like he was involved in an old west shootout. That was not a new experience but he usually felt like a participant and not a spectator. He didn't appreciate the difference.

"Redemption?" Boyd repeated slowly.

Becky nodded. "You've been trying to prove to everyone that you are not really as dark and twisted inside as they all think. Hell, maybe you're even trying to prove it to yourself too." She leaned forward, eyes searching Boyd's face earnestly.

Boyd leaned forward too, their faces close enough to share air. "And if I help you, give you information and render any additional aid that is within my power to render... That will be my penance?"

"Well, I don't believe that it can further blacken your reputation at any rate."

Boyd gave a sort of disgusted laugh. "I don't know that there is anything possible for me to do that would further blacken my reputation." Becky just sat there quietly, looking at him with an eerie sort of focus. After several minutes, Boyd sighed. "Do you know what the Dixie Mafia is?"

Becky nodded. Raylan stood a little straighter, feet on familiar ground.

"Eschel is opening up the meth trade for the DM boys?" he asked.

Boyd nodded, though his eyes never left Becky's face. "You're gonna want to talk to Leroy Bennet."

Becky gave Raylan a slightly confused look. He gave her a smile.

"Bennet," he repeated. "I'm guessing he took over Mags' operation?"

"She was the woman who sold out to that coal company then killed herself?" Becky clarified.

"Her love of life was not helped by Raylan killing two of her sons," Boyd added, still not looking at the Marshall.

"I expect not."

Raylan ignored them both. "Mags never delt in meth. Pot and oxy only." Everyone was quiet and Raylan got the feeling that they both knew something he didn't. He resisted the urge to shift like a school boy.

It dawned on him. "Which means that he would be a prime source for local boys."

"Correct," Boyd answered, sharing a smile with Becky. (Raylan was not jealous. Not one bit.) "You can find him at the old store. Do you need anything else from me today?"

Becky looked to Raylan to answer (and that did not make him feel validated. Not one bit).

"Depends. Are you gonna be this helpful later?"

"I will give you all the assistance you need." Boyd finally looked at Raylan but they both knew he was talking to Becky.

"Then we'll get out of your hair," Raylan answered.

Boyd stood. "Always nice to see you, Raylan. Becky."

Becky nodded. Instead of acting like a normal person, she stood up on the porch rail and jumped off, missing the plants and landing catlike on her feet.

Raylan just shook his head, smiled, and followed her in the regular way.

As they drove off, Ava came onto the porch from where she'd been eavesdropping. "That woman is different."

"Yes," Boyd said slowly, taking Ava's hand. "She certainly is."

AN2: Ok, so, I started working on this story before the final episodes of season two. The rest of this is sort of AU... similar endings for the Bennets but Boyd took Black Pike's money and is living with Ava having never gone all grayish side.


	7. That's Why I Own a Gun

AN: So...This chapter. Yeah. Hopefully y'all like it. I wrote most of it in many hospital waiting rooms. My aunt. I was a bit distracted. Your thoughts would be appreciated. They are needed in the Raylan/Becky department... :) WARNING: A little more cussing in this chap/sex/references to sex/and introduction of a truly despicable new character. He skeezed me when I wrote him so...

And thank you JustWhelmed for the awesome beta :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing but Becky and her truck. Fred.

"That went well," Becky said once Raylan was in the car. "I told you that Boyd could help."

"You did," Raylan agreed. He gave her a long look out of the corner of his eye.

"You might want to pay attention, Raylan, instead of giving me sidelong glances." The look on Becky's face was an almost shy smile. "Care to tell me what's going through your mind?"

He chuckled. "Not going to just read it?"

"I hate to detract from my own myth, but I am not actually possessed of psychic powers." She swept her hair into a sidelonged ponytail, but a few loose curls escaped to make her look very young.

"You really _connected _ with Boyd. Like, in a kinda creepy way."

He expected for one of three things to happen-a: for his statement to be dismissed as ridiculous, b: for his statement to be explained away as some sort of psychological game, or c: for it to die a slow, lingering death ignored and alone.

He wasn't expecting for her to shrug and say calmly, "He's a very intelligent man."

"He's also somewhat disturbed and insane," Raylan quickly added. "Don't forget disturbed and insane."

"Possibly."

"And that doesn't seem to matter to you at all." Raylan frowned and shook his head at her nonchalance.

Becky opened her mouth to reply but her phone beeped. "Text from Uncle Sherlock. He wants to know our progress." She frowned. "And if I'm eating. What bearing would that have on...Oh, Uncle John stole his phone obviously." Her fingers flew over the keypad. It sounded like she was texting a novel in the time it usually took Raylan to type Tim his lunch order.

A few moments later, her phone beeped again. "Uncle John says that I am to thank my federal marshal for him." She laughed.

"For what?"

"He knows I'm not eating on my own. Someone's taking over his role in my life."

"I'm not your uncle," Raylan said quickly.

Becky looked at him from under slightly lowered lashes. "No, you most certainly are not." There was an oddly sensual timbre to her voice and Raylan felt a little bit of answering heat in his gut.

"You know," she said after several minutes of silence. "My connection with Boyd is nothing about which you need to concern yourself. On any level."

"That's very...cryptic of you."

Becky smiled. "Well, being cryptic is one of my specialties. Along with astonishing deductive prowess, making a superb cup of tea, and getting optic fluid out of the couch. (Raylan did not want to ask about that one).

"Well, could you be a little less cryptic please?"

"Where would the fun be in that?" she asked with a Cheshire cat grin.

Raylan snorted. "All right, all right, don't tell me then." He shook his head and turned on the radio to discourage further conversations. "My own fault for being nosy."

They went through a moment of awkward silence before Becky sighed and turned off the music. "Why exactly do you find the tone of my conversation with Boyd so disturbing?"

"Forget it," Raylan said, turning the music back on.

"No, I want to know." She turned the radio back off. "Do you think that I shall chuck my career as a consulting detective into the rubbish bin and take up robbing banks and blowing up churches?"

"Of course not, I just thought it was weird," Raylan said, turning the radio back on. "Forget I said anything."

She snapped it back off. Her eyes narrowed and she looked at him, really looked at him, in the way only she could. Like she was seeing absolutely every detail on his head. "Or do you think that I'm going to be captivated by a few eloquent sentences and a tortured soul?"

"I said forget it," Raylan snapped, more angry than he meant to.

A hurt expression flickered across her face for a moment and then a neutral mask slipped into place.

"Look, Becky," he said, unsure of what to say.

She looked over at him, her face still neutral. "Marshal. Sod off." She clicked the music back on and stared blankly through the windshield.

Raylan slouched in his seat. "Shit." It probably meant something like "women".

After several very long minutes, Raylan looked back over at Becky. "You know, we'd probably be very good friends if we could actually get along."

She didn't say anything, but a moment later they pulled into the Bennets' driveway. If a rock-filled, pothole riddled rut in a hill could be called a driveway. If Raylan had not been native-born, he would have lost the oil pan.

The building at the top, however, was something resembling a deep South Lady Antebellum manor house. The juxtaposition actually earned a cocked eyebrow from Becky.

There were two people on the porch; one a pretty bottle red-headed woman, had a big crock on her lap into which she was snapping green beans from a bucket by her feet. The other was a dark-haired man with handsome, but slightly cruel, features.

"Not an easy drive," Raylan said, getting out of the car.

"Keeps away the traveling salesmen." The man stubbed his cigarette out on the porch rail and tossed it into the yard. "What do you want?"

"I'm Marshal Raylan Givens," (Becky stepped out of the car, ponytail gone) "and this is my associate Rebeca Brett. Are you Mr. Bennet?"

"Mitch Larkin, Leroy's my brother-in-law." His eyes settled on Becky and lit up in a predatory way that made Raylan uneasy.

"Is he here?" Raylan took an unconscious step toward Becky. "We'd like to talk to him."

Larkin jerked his thumb in the direction of the house. "Inside."

"Second door to your left at the top of the stairs," said the woman. (Raylan assumed she was Mrs. Bennet. She and Larkin had the same cold blue eyes.)

"Ms Helen," Becky said politely as she passed, hiding her smile. She didn't seem to notice Larkin's blatant turn of the head to watch her ass better when she walked by. Raylan did though.

Halfway up the stairs, she tugged on Raylan's arm. "Wait." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Now is not the proper time, but it is when I have the strength to do it. I apologize. For some of it. And we need to talk. Later."

Raylan nodded (and cringed internally at the four worst words in the English language). "Ok."

Just like that, she was all business again. "Good."

The door they wanted was shut and locked. Just as Raylan was raising his fist to knock, they heard a man give out a low, strangled moan.

Raylan stood back and kicked the door in.

Leroy Bennet was spread-eagled on the bed was a young, dark-haired woman between his legs. "Who the fuck are you?" He glanced over at Becky and gave another moan. "Care to join us?"

Raylan was slightly stunned for a moment. Not by what he was seeing, but by the fact that the man's wife was right downstairs. Becky was actually turned pink.

Raylan cleared his throat. "Federal Marshals, Mr. Bennet," he said mildly. "Get some pants on."

He turned back to Becky who still looked kinda pink. "Wanna wait outside?"

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjam, watching with a semi-amused expression as Bennet and his mistress scrambled for clothes. "So," she asked when the other woman had left the room, "do you make it a habit to screw the cleaning staff with your wife downstairs or was this just an experiment?"

"Is it a crime to take advantage of a pretty woman's spread legs?" Bennet asked, reclining against the headboard and smirking at Becky.

"No," Raylan answered for her. "But it makes me like you a whole lot less."

Bennet frowned. "Why the hell are you here, Marshal?"

"Nice house you have here," Raylan remarked instead of answering the question. "I thought Doyle's family got the money from the Black Pike sale."

"Yeah, but they sold me the land when they got the hell outta Harlan County and my wife's family is loaded. When my Aunt Mags ignored me, I married a bank."

"Charming," Becky said from her place by the door. "I think I will wait outside." (Raylan doubted it, but wasn't quite sure that he wanted to stop her from snooping).

Bennet laughed. "You never answered my question... Did you wanna join in?"

Becky just smiled, looking him over critically. "I didn't see anything big enough to impress me." She winked at Raylan in an unexpectedly blatant gesture and left.

Raylan choked on his own spit trying not to laugh. "So, Leroy..."

Raylan had been right. Becky had no intention of waiting patiently by the door. She headed down the stairs and turned the corner into another hallway, testing locks and stopping outside of the first door she couldn't open. "What are you hiding?" she mumbled. Checking that the coast was clear, she knelt and picked the lock with a hairpin she pulled from her pocket.

The door opened with a creak that made her wince. When no one came, she crept into a dark, cherry paneled room that was obviously an office.

Interestingly, all of the correspondence on the antique desk was addressed to Mitchel Larkin. "Since when does the brother-in-law have his office?" In one of the drawers, she found a Glock 9 millimeter. "Americans and their guns," she mumbled with a smile, thinking about Raylan for a moment.

In another drawer she found a skin mag and carton of cigarettes.

Expensive French cigarettes.

"I've got you, you slimy bastard." Shutting the drawers, she crept out again. She locked the door behind her and took a breath, feeling triumphant.

She was planning on retaking her place upstairs before Raylan knew she was gone, but she found her way blocked by Larkin. She plastered on a charming smile. "Your sister's home is lovely, but the loo was a bit hard to find."

He smiled a slightly lecherous smile and didn't move out of her way. "Did my brother-in-law give you a show?"

Becky grimaced. "I would have appreciated a warning."

Larkin took a step toward her. She resolutely did not  step back. "Leroy's a spineless, worthless, dickless piece of shit, but he does well with women. So do I."

"I'm sure," she said non-commitally, frowning when he laid his hand on her shoulder.

He smiled. Becky had dealt with bigger men, men with guns pointed at her skull, but something about Larkin unnerved her.

"I've had a number of beautiful women. Some more beautiful than you," he said conversationally. "But I think I like you. You're interesting. I'd like to get to know you better."

"Sorry, I'm spoken for." The lie slipped easily off her tongue. She wasn't sure where this lie had come from but it didn't taste as untrue as it should have.

Larkin's gaze hardened. "The difference between Leroy and myself is that he actually cares what the slut says. I don't let anything stop me from taking what I want." His thumb dug painfully into her shoulder.

Threats were easier to handle than vague menace. She felt her eyes narrow and her voice was icy cold and determined. "Remove your hand from my arm or I shall do it for you and feed it to the birds in Trafalgar square."

He let go, but it was with a smirk. "I've got dogs outside, you know. A particularly bloodthirsty bitch and her pack. So far, I've kept them away from...cops. But that might change."

Becky couldn't quite stop her eyes from flickering up to where Raylan had just appeared at the top of the stairs.

He didn't hear what Larkin said, but he met Becky's wide eyes and frowned. "Everything ok?"

"Yeah," Larkin said, not taking his eyes from Becky's face. "Perfect."

"I'll meet you in the car," Becky said quietly, slipping away and out the door.

Raylan waited until she was gone to come down the stairs. He grabbed Larkin by the collar and shoved him hard against the wall, one arm across his throat. "You stay the hell away from her."

Larkin put his hands up in fake surrender. "Whatever you say, Marshal."

Raylan didn't believe him, but he couldn't just shoot the man so he let him go. When he got to the car, Becky's eyes were closed and she was breathing a little fast.

"You ok?"

"Fine. Drive."

He did and he waited for her to say something. What little color she usually came back and her eyes opened. "You know it's him, don't you?"

"Yeah. Bennet's no good. He picked up a bottle from under the bed as soon as you left and spent half the time talking about your breasts." (Raylan didn't mention when Bennet had called Becky an 'icy bitch' and Raylan had threatened to break his nose.)

Becky smiles wanely. "At least he's not all bad." Raylan laughed. "What's Larkin's connection with the Dixie Mafia?"

"I don't know." Becky still looked kind of shaken so he asked. "Are you sure you're fine? Did he make some sort of threat against your life? I'll keep you safe, I promise."

She smiled again. "I know. And it wasn't my life exactly that he threatened."

As the implication sank in, Raylan's grip tightened on the steering wheel and a blind rage started to settle over him like a hot blanket. "I'm gonna shoot him. I'm gonna cut his goddamn balls off and shoot him."

"While that would be satisfying, I don't believe it would solve anything," Becky said sardonically.

"Don't give a fuck," Raylan retorted.

"I do," she said firmly. "We need to come up with a plan like a professionals. We should go to your office and gather more information."

Raylan nodded, the rage sliding into his belly and curling tightly into a controllable fuel. "So..." He tried to find something, anything, to keep that anger into that manageable ball. "What was it you thought we should talk about?"

"It's more of a conversation to have face to face," she said quietly.

"Becky..." That shy, vulnerable expression on her face had his protective instincts kicking in again and made him want to go castrate Larkin again. "Come on, I need the distraction."

She looked at him and read something that told her that he wasn't exaggerating. "I think I might possibly by falling a little in love with you."


	8. Paradox of Pain

AN: Hey y'all! So, this chapter is not the way I was expecting it...It was not supposed to be this couply and it was supposed to more casey. However, Raylan is not good at awkward silences. He is good at awkward conversations. And thus...this was born. This story was always supposed to be a romance AND other genre story... Next chapter I promise will more case-centered. Oh, and warning, Raylan drops the f-bomb once. But it's kind of appropriate.

And thanks again to JustWhelmed for being an awesome beta and sounding board for ideas. :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did... Well, hehe... Wynona, car accident, kaboom.

_"I think I might be falling in love with you..."_

Raylan's first reaction was to get angry. "That's not funny, Becky."

"I'm not laughing," she said quietly, looking down at her hands.

Raylan's second reaction was to gape like a landed fish and nearly run them off the road. "You...repeat that?"

"I think I might be falling in love with you."

"Oh." Raylan looked over at Becky, who was hiding behind her hair. "Uhm..."

He couldn't see her face but he could practically hear her smile. "I told you that this wasn't the proper time for this conversation. Perhaps you should start listening to me."

"Probably should but unlikely to do so," he joked, almost on reflex. "Look, Becky, I..."

"Don't think that you could be feeling the same way," she finished for him, sounding very matter-of-fact about it.

"I wasn't going to say that," he corrected quickly. "I just, wasn't expecting you to say what you said."

She looked over at him, her face in that carefully neutral expression. "And now that I have said it?"

"I wish I had a response," he said sincerely. He watched her slow nod and wondered what she was thinking. "We will talk about this, I promise. I just, I need to think."

Becky gave him a small, surprisingly understanding smile, and resumed her normal position of looking out the window.

Raylan was glad that she was the one to actually end the conversation. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to hurt himself. There were so many good reasons why he should say goodbye to her at the end of the case and run in the opposite direction. She was arrogant, dramatic, stubborn, and hyper intense. She had talents for both annoying him and getting into trouble.

But she was Becky and he was never good at listening to reason and that made the whole thing more complicated.

"Did you always want to be in law enforcement?" She asked suddenly, derailing his train of thought. Or lack of train really.

"What?"

"When you were a lad, what did you want to be as an adult?" She was looking at him. He turned his gaze back to the road. Really it was a miracle that neither of them had been killed yet.

"A cowboy," he deadpanned. "Wearing a cool hat, carrying a gun, fighting in saloons."

"Getting all the ladies," she teased.

He laughed, but after her confession, the joke was less funny than it might have been. "I was an ambitious six-year-old. But," he shrugged and felt Becky's gaze sharpen on him, "the only real thing I ever wanted to be was not a miner and not a crook. And I wanted out." His mouth twisted slightly at the irony. "All I ever really wanted was the hell out of Kentucky and to be able to sleep at night. I didn't get either."

"Raylan..." she said quietly, sounding just a little sad.

"What about you?" He changed the subject quickly, not wanting her comfort right then. "You can't always have wanted to be a private, consulting detective slash bartender."

"Well, when I was three I wanted to be a ghost."

Whatever strange answer he was expecting, that wasn't it. "Did you realize that you had to be dead?"

"That was sort of the point. I would be dead and I could haunt people." She chuckled and turned to look back out the window. "Mostly, I thought that if I was dead, my mum might miss me. I wanted to see that." Her tone was somewhat speculative, as if she was talking about a theory of the case.

"That's the fucking saddest thing I ever heard," Raylan commented before he could stop himself.

Oddly enough, she chuckled again. "I suppose it is sad. I never really thought about it that way. It was always an academic question."

"Whether or not your mother loved you...? That was an academic question?"

Becky shrugged and looked down at her hands, almost bemused by their twisting. "It was easier. Even when I was young, I was...odd. This skill I have, yes I've practiced and studied to sharpen in, but I have always seen more than most people. And I have always been antisocial. Whether that was mum's fault or my own basic personality I don't know. I only had a smattering of friends in school and that was only because they were trying to kiss my ass and get help in chemistry. I knew that it wasn't real. I always knew." She laughed a little. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

Raylan wanted to stop the car and see the expression on her face. Her voice was monotone and she was hiding behind her hair again. But he figured that was ill advisable. "You are telling me though. Might as well finish what you started."

She nodded. "I was lonely. I was angry. I was frightened. It was easier just to turn all of my emotions off and view my life as a study in human behavior."

Raylan shook his head. "I could never get past the anger. I hated my dad so much that I used to wonder if I was going to turn into the bastard."

Becky didn't say anything, just reached out and patted his arm. "That anger was probably healthier." Raylan snorted and Becky ignored him. "I almost turned into a sociopath."

Without thinking, he took one hand off the wheel and put it on her thigh. She gave him a slightly startled look. "You didn't."

When he didn't move his hand, she cautiously put one of hers over it. "And you didn't become your father."

He didn't know what to say to that so he didn't say anything. The atmosphere was almost suffocating, the weight of past mistakes and future choices on his shoulders.

At least, until Becky said in an almost bright tone. "When I realized that ghosts aren't real I decided that I wanted to be a chemist."

"I hated chemistry. Why on earth would you want to take it up?"

"I think there's something beautiful about it, controlling your environment, complexities in a beaker..." She laughed. "And, ocassionally, you can make things blow up."

Raylan laughed along with her. "You and explosives... Why does that thought scare me?"

They past the rest of the way to Lexington in easy silence.

The moment they stepped into the Marshal Field Office, Art motioned them back to his office.

"Good afternoon, Deputy Mullen," Becky said conversationally. "Shame that when your knee starts to feel better your wife's allergies start acting up."

Art smiled and shook his head. "And how did you know that?"

"Bag of tissue boxes in the corner. High pollen count this morning. No tissues on your desk."

"I'm never sure if I should feel like an idiot for not putting it together, or if I should consider you a genius."

"I like the second option," Becky said with her quick, slightly toothy, actual grin.

"Case?" Raylan said, waving his hand a little to get their attention. "Terrorist on the loose... Anyone remember that?"

"No, Raylan, I'd forgotten completely. The pile of paperwork about it made it so easy." Art poured two glasses of bourbon. He offered to pour Becky one but she politely declined. "I figured if you were coming here for any reason other than to shoot the shit, then you'd bring it up."

"As a matter of fact, we have a report," Raylan said, taking a sip.

"Actually," Becky interrupted. "You don't need me for this and I was wondering if I could examine the photos taken at all of the crime scenes. Just to make sure that no one missed anything."

"Sure thing." Art stuck his head out the door. "Tim!"

The younger Marshal entered a moment later. "Boss?"

"Tim, this is Ms. Brett. Ms. Brett, this is Marshal Tim Gutterson. Tim, she needs to take a look at the photos from all of the Eschel crime scenes."

"My pleasure," Tim said. And, was that actually a smile?

"Thank you," Becky said with an answering smile.

Raylan resisted the urge to watch them walk away but he couldn't keep his jaw from clenching the tiniest bit when he heard her ask, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He quickly filled Art in on all of the details. Well, almost all of the details. He neglected to mention the specific intention behind Larkin's threat.

"Slimy bastard," Art said, sipping his own drink.

"Larkin or Bennet?"

"Choose. One's killin' people and the other is runnin' around on his wife. Slime."

"I think Larkin's a little higher on the scale of evil," Raylan said, hiding his smile behind his glass.

Art just grunted. "Get with Rachel; see what you can dig up on him."


	9. I Welcome All Challengers

AN: Wow. Ok. I told you this one would be more casey. Thanks to Justwhelmed for betaing. She's awesome.

Disclaimer: I still only own Becky darn it.

"Raylan are you even listening to me?" Rachel asked, flicking Raylan's ear. Hard.

"Yeah," he answered petulantly, rubbing at the offended spot." Leroy Bennet, lived in Florida, two terms in the pen for book-keeping."

Rachel rolled her eyes.

"What?" Raylan had the sinking feeling that he'd screwed up somehow. "How long ago did you say that?"

"Not long, but I'm getting monosyllabic answers and no help from you."

"Sorry. I'm not sure what's wrong with me today," he said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.

"Mmhmm," Rachel said non-commitally. "That's why you've been staring across the office at Tim's desk where he and that consultant have been going over photographs."

"I have not!" Raylan protested.

She snorted. "You two have been making lovey eyes at each other since you got separated."

"Becky hasn't looked over here once!"

Rachel smirked and Raylan wanted to kick himself. "It's not what you think."

"You're not sleeping together?" Rachel asked with a small smile.

"Actually, no," Raylan said a little smugly. Then he realized what it said about his character that he could be smug about NOT sleeping with an off-limits woman and he deflated a little bit. "We aren't."

"Maybe you should start." She sounded so matter-of-fact that her tone took Raylan as aback as her words.

"I didn't think anyone in this office would say that," he said after a long moment.

"Art tell you to stay away?"

"In no uncertain terms."

"So what?"

Raylan couldn't help but laugh. "Are you seriously asking me that? You? The most by the book member of law enforcement I've ever met..."

Rachel shrugged. "Since when has what Art said ever stopped you?" she challenged. Raylan had no answer to that. "Look, Raylan, I think you're a cowboy. I think you're reckless. I think you're often an arrogant asshole with no regard for the rules."

"Gee thanks," Raylan said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. "Remind me to call you next time I need a character reference."

Rachel continued as if he hadn't spoken. "But, somehow, you're good at what you do. And, despite the date, we're still in the Wild West out here. If everybody was like you, this agency, and maybe the country, would go down in flames. But we kinda need you."

"Uhm...thanks," he said slowly, not sure how to take that.

She smiled like maybe gratitude was not the appropriate reaction. "You might brood over mistakes, but you aren't afraid to make them. It seems to be a part of your method."

"Maybe I am this time," he said quietly. "When I start to get emotionally invested, it usually ends...badly. Maybe this time I feel like rethinking my method."

"Then you should definitely go for it," Rachel said in an almost motherly tone. "Faint heart never won fair lady and all that shit."

"The problem is, I've already won fair lady I think, and now I don't know what to do."

The slap upside the head came out of nowhere.

"What was that for?"

"I learned that from an NCIS agent I worked a case with once," Rachel explained. "It's meant to stop people from being idiots. All that this being careful is going to tell that girl that she's not worth enough for you to take a chance on. And given your history of taking chances, that really says something."

He gave her a slightly startled look. "That's not what I meant. And I'm not sure that Becky would see it so illogically..."

Rachel snorted. "Boy, am I glad that you never sets your sights on me..."

"Would've had a hard time resisting my charms?" he teased.

"Would've had a hard time with all of the paperwork that accompanied breaking your nose," she retorted. "Now can we get back to work on the damn case?"

"Yeah," Raylan said, scooting his chair closer to the screen.

Art called them all into the conference room an hour later for a briefing. "Before we get started, I should tell you that there's been another explosion in Harlan." A quiet spread through the room and everyone stopped shifting or adjusting their chairs and just froze.

"Any deaths?" Tim asked, hoping that this one broke pattern.

"Two, the cookers-Pete and Hal Gilmore. Blown up and shot just like all the others."

Becky nodded. "Have the local police secured the crime scene for my inspection?"

"Not exactly," Art replied. "I just got the phone call a couple of minutes ago. It's still extremely dangerous. No one but firemen and hasmat professionals are allowed anywhere near the place for 24 hours."

Becky got a slightly sulky look on her face for a moment then seemed to acknowledge the wisdom behind the precautions. Raylan was glad because he wasn't looking forward to trying to stop her.

Art looked a little relieved himself (and so did Tim for that matter). "Does anyone have anything actually helpful to report or are we just here to shoot the shit and whine about how helpless we are? Raylan? Rachel?"

Rachel stood up and walked over to the magnetized whiteboard stationed by the table. "Leroy Bennet." She pinned his mug shot to the board. "Former resident of Miami and the Dade County Correctional Facility. Two terms for book-keeping and his financials showed a loooong history of gambling before that."

"Now, you can't wrack up debt like that in Miami without the Dixie Mafia getting mixed up in your business," Raylan interjected. "And, oddly, not only does Bennet still have his kneecaps, but he's married to Larkin's sister Helen."

"I thought you were more interested in Larkin anyway," Art said, sneering slightly at Bennet's picture.

"We're getting to that," Rachel said. "Turns out, Larkin's parents never bothered to marry and he has his mother's name. Sarah Larkin, died in 2005. Mitch's father is Miguel Santino."

Art and Tim both whistled. Becky closed her eyes and concentrated for a moment. "I can't find the file," she admitted, looking a little disgusted with herself.

"He's the head of a huge branch of the DM, major drug trafficker," Tim explained before Raylan could. "Everyone knows it, but witnesses always get amnesia or disappear. Very rarely do the reappear and it's always bloody and mangled."

"It usually goes that way with crime lords," Becky said sharing a grim smile with Tim.

Raylan cleared his throat. "Yeah, Mitch was the prime suspect in four of those reappearances. All women. All sexually assaulted. But no charges were ever filed."

Tim glanced at the back of Becky's head and frowned, clearly perturbed by the thought of her interacting with that particular piece of lower pond scum. Raylan didn't know if he should be aggravated by or grateful for the concern. He could be both. He was a complex guy.

Art didn't seem to notice Raylan's internal delemna. "Raylan, you said earlier that Bennet's married to Larkin's sister? Helen?"

Raylan nodded. "As far as we could see, she's never been in any trouble. We couldn't even find a parking ticket."

"So, daddy kept his little girl out of the family business." Art crossed and recrossed his arms. "So, why on Earth would he let her marry a two-bit riverboat gambler?"

"The land," Becky said immediately. "Leroy owned that land in Harlan County that they could use as a base of operations for expanding their enterprises, and he local connections already."

"The land was obviously more important than his daughter," Rachel finished.

The two women exchanged a brief look and Becky gave that unexpectedly quick grin, white teeth flashing for an instant. "You aren't an idiot, Marshal."

Rachel seemed to understand the rarity of that compliment and gave a nod of thanks.

"Before you two start braiding each other's hair," Art said in that half-amused, half-exasperated tone he usually reserved for Raylan. "I don't suppose that Tim and Ms. Brett got anything from those pictures."

"Actually, yes," Tim said, taking Rachel's place and putting up his own set of pictures. "Becky found a couple more of those fancy cigarettes."

"Apparently, one of those henchmen smokes like a chimney," Becky said.

"How do you know it's a henchman?" Rachel asked. "And not Eschel herself."

"Because she knows those cigarettes are a mark of distinction. She's never left one at a crime scene," Becky explained. "I'm not sure how this helps us now, but it does mean that one of her henchmen is somewhat careless."

Art didn't look impressed. "Anything else?"

"A footprint," Tim said with a slight smile aimed at Becky. "She found a footprint. Here." He pointed at a somewhat spongy piece of moss in the upper corner of one photograph.

"I don't see anything," Rachel admitted, wondering if she needed glasses.

"Neither did I," Tim said, which set her fears to rest. As an ex-sniper, Tim had almost perfect eyesight. "But when I blew it up..." He put another picture on the board. In it a softly, but clearly, imprinted heel print.

"Son of a bitch," Art said quietly.

Becky's face held a momentary smirk. "I missed it the first time myself."

"But what does half a footprint tell us?" Rachel, ever practical, asked.

Becky shook her head. "Not much, I'm afraid. All I can deduce is that our suspect is approximately 6', less than 35 years old, in good health, works in a barn occasionally, is fashion conscious but lacks the capital to truly pull it off."

Everyone stared at her, Raylan amused by that.

"'Not much,'" Tim quoted. "Obviously."

"That's a new style of outdoor boot," Becky explained. "It costs about 50 pounds in London. No one buys it unless they care what they look like. But see here..." She pointed to a tiny impression in the tread. "That's from a barn nail. He hasn't bothered to replace the boot, most likely because he can't. The size of the shoe itself is an indication of his height, but his stride is average for that. He's in relatively good health. The fact that he's with Eschel at all shows that he's trusted, but since he's not in management, he's probably young."

"I don't suppose you can tell me his hair and eye color," Art joked.

"Not from this," Becky said seriously. "I'm sorry."

Art smiled. "When I was reading the file that Interpol left behind, Eschel generally rents two hotel rooms a few towns away from her targets, one for her and one for her cronies. They do all of the interacting with hotel staff who don't even know that Echel is there."

"That's right," Becky said.

"Well, now that we have a partial description of one of the goons, we can start circulating it to hotels in outlying counties," Art said.

All three Marshals groaned. "Really, Art?" Raylan asked. "Talk about your needle in a haystack..."

"And it won't work," Becky said. "The Paris police tried the same thing. Eschel bribed several other hotel staff to tip her off if people start asking around."

Art rubbed his temple like he was getting a headache. "I've never heard of anyone this careful. Any other ideas?"

"I'm working on it," Becky assured him.

Raylan frowned as something ocurred to him. "Wait...didn't you get involved in the first place because you saw Eschel's face on a security tape at the bar you were working?"

Becky nodded.

"That seems a little...careless." Something started twisting in Raylan's gut. "Could Eschel have known that you're in Kentucky?'

"I suppose," Becky said. "I made no secret of the fact."

The twisting in his gut got worse. "Did it never occur to you that your involvement might be an elaborate trap?"

"Of course it did," Becky said in a disturbingly flippant tone. "That's what I was hoping for. Because, if it is, and it probably is, then that's good news. She's going to want to kill me herself, up close. We can use that, lay a counter trap."

"I'm not letting you use yourself as bait!" Raylan exclaimed.

"That's sweet of you, but it's not your decision to make."

"Art!" Raylan turned to his boss, wondering how he would react to begging. "You can't let her do that!"

Art looked a little guilty but faced Becky. "Do you have a plan?"

"Not a fully developed one, no. But Crowder is our way in."

"Boyd?" Art clarified. "How do you figure?"

"Natural enough for him to want back in, now that new management is taking over. Everyone here thought so."

"True enough I guess," Art agreed. "Do you think he'll play ball?"

"Yes," Becky said emphatically. "I'm certain of it."

"I guess you two need to powwow then. Keep me updated. Becky, know that you have the full resources and manpower of this office at your disposal."

"Thank you, Deputy Mullen."

"Dismissed."

Raylan hung back to talk to Art when the others filed out. "I hate this plan."

"I know and I do too. But Eschel is a monster and this might be our only chance to stop her. What would you have me do?" Art jerked his head in Becky's direction. "IF anyone can pull this off, it's her. With your help." He patted Raylan's shoulder. "Watch her back."

"I'm watching every part of her."

"That's not comforting."

Raylan just let the conference room door swing shut behind him.

AN 2: I'm not against Rachel/Raylan, but with Becky/Raylan...I didn't want too many love triangle. That's irritating in stories. And I couldn't help the NCIS ref.


	10. Just Trying to Fly and Get a Little Love

AN: Hehe, uhm... I've never written this kind of thing before. Not too graphic I promise. I love y'all.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even Bernard. He's owned by the fabulous JustWhelmed who also betad this.

Becky was waiting for Raylan by the elevators when he was done talking with Art. That was an odd thing about Becky, one of many. She always moved quickly without seeming like she was in a hurry. "Are we going to Boyd's now?" she asked, leaning against the wall.

"No." She opened her mouth to object but he cut her off. "We're going back to my motel and we're going to call Boyd. I don't think you're being followed, but I'm not gonna take you into the heart of Harlan until we actually HAVE a plan."

"I'm more persuasive in person," she said stepping into the elevator. "I would insist if I wasn't so sure that Boyd would co-mmph." She was cut off again, but this time by Raylan's tongue being thrust into her mouth.

Her hands had drifted to his shoulders and her face had a slightly dreamy expression when Raylan pulled away from the passionate kiss. "I know that you think using yourself as bait is a good idea. But I don't." He kissed the corner of her mouth very tenderly. "Think of something else." He looked into her eyes and prayed that she would understand what he couldn't say.

She gave him a shy smile and he knew that she did. "I swear that I shall do my best."

He knew that was the best he was going to get and nodded, tousling her curls affectionately.

While they were driving to his hotel, Raylan realized how much time they spent together in the car. He said something to Becky, but she ignored him. Or maybe she didn't hear him. Her seat was laid back and her eyes were closed. He would have thought that she was asleep except for the fact that he could practically see the thoughts racing through her brain. He wasn't sure that anything new could be processed at that moment.

She got out of the car automatically and stopped short behind Raylan once she was through the motel door. "Why is Bernard on your pillow?"

"You seem to think better with the bear," Raylan explained. "So I had a couple of court officers pick stuff up for you. There should be clothes for you too, in the drawer."

"How did you know I would be coming back to Lexington instead of my hotel?" Becky asked, toing off her shoes and sitting cross-legged on the bed.

"Didn't know how long we'd take. Plus, I figured that, with all of these ex-Moussad people running around, best not to stay in one place too long." Raylan took off his hat, blazer, and boots before slumping in the chair across from her. "We didn't really have lunch... Are you hungry?"

She just looked at him.

He sighed and shook his head, although Becky could see a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "If I order pizza, will you eat without my having to force it down your throat?"

She actually considered making him try it. Briefly. "As you wish. But only after we call Boyd."

He wanted to object, but knew that it was pointless.

He didn't know if he was praying or not while the phone was ringing. If he was, then the answer was "no" when Boyd actually answered the phone.

"Hello, Boyd," Becky said, inexplicably cheerful.

"I wondered when I might be hearing from you, Becky," he said in a voice that Raylan couldn't make out. "I take it you need my help."

"Rather. Raylan believes that my involvement in this case is a trap." She paused for a moment. "And I don't believe he's wrong."

"I'm not sure that I like where this is going," Boyd mumbled. "Are you planning on using yourself as the bait in this trap?"

Becky looked at Raylan and smiled. "No. That's where you come in."

Boyd laughed once. His laugh should have been humorless and somehow wasn't. Raylan didn't think he'd ever understand these people. "I am not sure that I like where this is going either. What is the plan?"

"How do you feel about becoming a double agent?"

He laughed that same, oddly amused laugh. "I've heard more appealing offers from less appealing people. I would, what, pass information along to Larkin and Eschel about your whereabouts while you're sequestered safely away with the Marshals? Lure them into some sort of trap?"

"That's the general idea, yes," Becky said. "I still haven't worked out all of the specifics. Do you know where Raylan's Lexington hotel is?"

"I do."

"Then will you come tomorrow at this time to hear the rest of my scheme?" Becky asked. "24 hours is more than enough time to decide what exact steps to take."

Boyd was quiet for a very long time. "I will," he said at last then hung up the phone.

"That was easier than I thought it would be," Becky said thoughtfully.

"Great," Raylan said sarcastically. He was suddenly angry that Becky would be in town longer. All he wanted was to fly her away to safety somewhere. The feeling was making him jittery. "Goddamn fantastic." He pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker blue from his bedside table and took a long swallow. "Drink?"

"I don't," she quietly. "My mum did. I don't."

That made him feel strangely guilty so he put the bottle away. "I'm going to take a shower."

She picked up his phone. "I'm going to order pizza."

"Don't put anything weird on it," he warned, taking his clothes into the bathroom with him.

He stripped and started the water. He could vaguely hear Becky's voice through the door, too muffled to discern the individual words but the general ebb and flow of conversation.

Raylan knew that he was an angry man. He could almost always feel it, bubbling away under the surface of his skin. It was a part of him and he could handle it. But when he stepped under the water and lost even the dull murmur of her voice, he realized that he wasn't angry.

He was fucking scared.

Raylan sank to the bottom of the shower and let the practically scalding water just beat down on his body. He blinked it out of his eyes and tried to get his bearings. He didn't know when he got so caught up in Becky that the thought of losing her had him on the edge of panic, but he was caught up now.

The images dancing behind his lids of what could happen to her if Eschel got ahold of her, or Larkin, what they would do to her-they scared him. And made him angry.

That anger was familiar and he concentrated on that, let it seep back into his bloodstream. It made him want to shoot someone, but it also helped him get his feet back under him.

He wasn't ashamed of his moment of weakness. He didn't know a single member of a large law enforcement agency that didn't get scared or occasionally want to eat his gun. They all coped in various ways. Art had his family. Tim had his apparent apathy toward life in general. Rachel had something too. Raylan didn't know what it was, but everyone had something. Raylan had anger and he was okay with that.

He finished what he got into the shower to do and stepped out of the now lukewarm water. Briefly, he considered shaving, but decided against in in favor of pizza. He pulled on jeans and a wifebeater and walked out of the bathroom toweling off his hair.

"Food get here yet?" He asked then saw the unopened cardboard box on the table. "Nevermind."

Becky looked up at him, seemingly engrossed by something on his face. It made him somewhat uncomfortable.

She seemed to reach some sort of decision because she walked over to him. While she was still walking, she started unbuttoning her dress shirt. She let it slip from her shoulders when they were practically nose to nose.

Most women would have meant that to be sexual, but Raylan knew better. Trying his best not to look down (and mostly succeeding) he asked, "Need your sweater?"

"No." She stood on her tiptoes and leaned in so that her lips were only an inch away from his. "I am attempting to seduce you."

That turned him on and made him laugh at the same time.

She smiled in what Raylan thought was a self-deprecating manner but he couldn't be sure since she was so close. "Don't judge me too harshly, Raylan, I've never done this before."

Talk about an ego boost. "Usually the one seduced?" he teased, hands moving to her hips, lightly skimming the bare skin he found there.

"No...I've never done," she made a vague hand-motion in what little space there was between their bodies, "this before."

"Oh." _Oh. Oh God. _That sent him from kinda turned on to blindingly so and needing to adjust his pants in about half a second. "Uhm." _Oh God, what should I do? _"Are you sure?" _Please please please._

She smiled. "I started it didn't I?" Her hands drifted down and started wandering under his shirt over his abs. "You won't break me, Raylan."

He hoped not because his will  broke after that and he kissed her. His tongue invaded her sweet mouth and his only thought was _Naked. Now. _

After that there weren't many thoughts at all.

She was beautiful and inexperienced and, for once in her life, let him take the lead. He was as careful as he could be and she didn't cry but he thought that was a near thing. She was quiet, just a few soft little noises escaped. But she dug her nails into his back and arched under him perfectly.

They basked in the afterglow for a while, sweaty and spooned together. Having her in his arms, his face buried in her hair, smelling her expensive shampoo, he thought that maybe Art's way of coping might be best.

Eventually, they got up and had cold pizza and warm soda and didn't really care when they started kissing like it was the last thing they'd ever do. Becky clung to him like she was drowning then surprised him by showing him just exactly how fast a learner she was.

She stayed awake in his arms just listening to him breathe for a long time, fighting back tears of loss. Still, she couldn't deny what she had to do, so she kissed him softly and rolled out of bed. He frowned and mumbled so she leaned down and whispered that she was just going to the loo and that appeased him into going back to sleep.

Instead, she redressed and sat down to write a note on the motel stationary.

_My dear Raylan,_

_By the time you read this, I will be far away and beyond your help. I knew that the plan we made with Boyd would never work. It has no chance. Eschel would never believe him. My plan will buy enough time for you to bring down Larkin and Eschel both. Mrs. Bennet is the key. She will help you._

_Raylan, don't go off half-cocked and get yourself killed. I really did try to think of another plan, one that would let me stay with you, but I could not. Tell my uncles that I loved them and believe me to be,,_

_Forever yours,_

_Farrow Rebecca Brett_

She laid it on the nightstand and slipped out the door. Boyd's truck was idling in the parking lot. He looked over at her and she knew what signs he was seeing. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I have to."


	11. We Ain't Promised Tomorrow

AN: Ok, so this story doesn't have ton of readers... I really want to continue this but if there's no interest, I'm going to prioritize other stories. If y'all really want me to continue, please leave a review of some sort. Thank you! Thanks though to SpadesJade for her constant reviews. And thanks to my beta JustWhelmed for all the help :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing but Becky. trust me, if I owned Raylan... hehe, y'all wouldn't see him very often.

Raylan woke up to a cold and empty bed when the sunlight pierced the blinds. "Becky," he mumbled, keeping his face buried in the pillow.

When he didn't get an answer, he sat up in the bed. "Becky?" he said a bit more loudly. He did a quick scan of the room and saw that her belongings were still there, including her phone and wallet.

He relaxed a little, knowing she wouldn't go anywhere without those.

Then he saw the note.

As he read it, he felt a coat of ice start to form in his veins. His stomach dropped to his feet and his palms started to sweat. "Damn you, Becky," he said, crumpling the letter, only to smooth it out again. _Far away and beyond your help _"Goddamn you."

He started trying to come up with a plan while he was quickly getting dressed. His first reaction was to drive up to the Becket farm and kill anyone and everyone who got in his way.

Raylan had a feeling that Larkin had more men than Raylan had bullets. Becky was right to not _go off half-cocked_. He smiled at how well she knew him then clenched his jaw to keep from thinking in the past tense.

His second reaction was to grab his phone and, on his way out, call Art for backup. That's when he saw that his battery had been smashed. So had Becky's. And the landline had been cut.

"Well...shit."

He couldn't help but laugh at her ingenuity, even while he was adjusting his hat and grabbing his keys. The longer it took him to follow her, the safer he would be. She thought he would dare not go without some sort of backup. She didn't think he would be so reckless.

She obviously didn't know what risks a man in love would take.

Raylan had no idea how fast he was driving but he was pretty sure it broke the speed limit on the autoban. He was still scared that he was taking too long. Becky's words haunted him. _No chance_

He knew that his plan wasn't the best, but he also knew that he couldn't out-plan Becky Brett anyway. He thought that maybe minimal planning and instinct was the way to go.

As much as he wanted to shoot some people, he wanted Becky safe and in his arms more. He could only pray that Eschel hadn't killed her yet. A shiver ran down his spine when he thought of _why _that might be. He refused to think about it any further, concentrating on what he had to do.

Instead of driving to Larkin's place, he drove to Ava's. The woman herself came out onto the porch when he knocked, followed by Boyd.

"What do you want?" she asked in that hostile voice she reserved for Raylan alone. He felt so lucky.

Boyd pushed past Ava gently. "I know what he wants."

Raylan realized then just how Becky got away from him and his rage threatened to bubble over. With a low growl he barely heard himself make, he shoved Boyd up against the wall, arm on his throat. Ava let out a cry and ran inside, presumably to get her gun but Raylan didn't give a damn.

"Why?" he snarled. "Why would you drive her to her death?"

"Because neither of us could think of another way to save you," Boyd choked out, not fighting against Raylan's hold, probably because he felt guilty over Becky too. "Believe me or not, Raylan, but I don't have many friends (Boyd may have actually smiled a little at the term, but it was hard to tell at the angle) and I'd like to keep the few that I have got alive."

Raylan wasn't surprised by the bitterness in his own voice. "You might keep me breathing," he corrected, letting go and stepping back. "But I won't be living."

Boyd didn't even rub at the bruises forming.

Ava came out and lowered the shotgun. She wanted to tell Raylan to get the hell off her property, but she couldn't. She couldn't turn him away when he was standing there with a desperate, quivering energy she'd never seen before. He and Boyd were having some sort of silent conversation. Ava didn't understand the people in her own life. Not the man in her bed, not the woman who called in the middle of the night and made him leave it. Not the man she used to have in her bed or the hold that same woman had over him to make him love like he'd never loved her. Ava wanted to make them all go away, but she knew that she never could.

The silence was broken at last by Boyd. "I'll go get my keys."

They left a minute later and Ava went inside to make biscuits. What else could she do?

All Raylan wanted from Boyd was to be dropped off and picked up at a spot just outside the woods on the backside of the property. "If I'm not back in two hours..." His mouth twisted into a dark line that Boyd didn't like much.

"Be here," was all Boyd said to that. He didn't wish him good luck; he just sent up his first prayer in a very long time.

Raylan was all too aware of the minutes ticking by. Two hours wasn't a long time in matters of life and death. Life or death.

He was hoping that Eschel had brought Becky back to Bennet house because of its isolation. It seemed logical at least and it was his only lead. He edged past one guard. His only chance was the padlocked cellar door.

There was a man outside it, armed with a .45 handgun. Raylan was able to use the shrubbery to get close. He suddenly remembered watching Monty Python and the knights who say "Ni" and had to repress a very misplaced and disturbed giggle. Then he was pulling the goon into a chokehold. It was easier than it looked to squeeze the life out of someone.

He stashed the dead man's pistol in his own pocket and then used the butt of his gun to break open the padlock. It was creepy, shutting himself into the darkness.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust. Fortunately, there was a little light coming from the solitary half-window on the opposite wall.

He could see dim shapes and a trace of movement in the corner. Even in the dim light, he recognized Becky. He thought he would recognize her in the dark by her breathing.

"Becky." She didn't say anything. He scooped her up gently and she only made a little, pained noise in the back of throat. He shook her gently and used her first name. "Farrow."

"Raylan?" Her voice was tried but she already was putting pieces together. "You didn't make a bust."

"I'm here to save you," he said quietly. "Are you all right?" He started running his hands over her softly, checking for injuries.

"You're an idiot," she hissed. "You've ruined everything."

"We can fight about that later. Boyd's gonna be waiting for us." He drew his hand back from her stomach and it came back tacky with drying blood. "Oh goddamn it Becky."

There was a trace of dark humor in her voice. "Boyd will be waiting for one of us." She traced his jaw and he could feel her blood get on his skin. "You should go."

"I'm not leaving you," he said fiercely. Holding her body close, in the dark and the danger, his very soul hurt with all the things he needed to say. "Not ever."

Whatever she might have said in response to that was cut off by the door leading to the stairs and the rest of the house opening with a creak. Footsteps descended, came closer. Raylan clutched at Becky and his gun.

"Hello Marshal."


	12. I'm Justified

_AN: Thanks for the lovely review SpadesJade. It makes my day that you're so invested in this little tale. Yes, Becky's plans are often conveluded and, with this one, her priority was not on catching the bad guy, but on saving Raylan. :) Just so y'all know, I never meant that I was going to stop the story, I was just going to prioritize other stories with more readers. (This story averages 11 a month) but then I had writers block on all but this one so I wrote a really quick update. :) And thanks to JustWhelmed for the beta work. And the motivation._

_Disclaimer: I only own Becky and all of the bad guys. But I leave them in my Winchester protected closet so they can't get revenge on me._

Becky tensed in his arms, and Raylan heard a sharp intake of breath. Her voice, though, was perfectly calm. "Yavneh."

Raylan didn't need to be reminded. He didn't get out maneuvered very often and he remembered it when he did. He hadn't seen the gunman on the hill, but he recognized the voice.

"You son of a bitch," Raylan hissed through his teeth, taking careful aim, despite Becky's weight.

Peter Yavneh, a startlingly handsome, dark-haired, dark-eyed man, smiled. It wasn't a cold smile. It was actually quite warm. "Are you going to shoot me, Marshal Givens? In the basement of the house where you are currently attempting an undercover operation? Are you going to draw that attention to yourself?"

"It crossed my mind," Raylan retorted. He knew that was a dumb idea, but he was trying to buy himself enough time to think of something else.

Yavneh snorted. "I had the chance to kill you and I did not."

Raylan's legs were starting to cramp from holding his weighted crouch but he didn't shift. "Yeah, well, I'm not a psychopathic bastard who deserves it."

The smile returned and that warmth was creepy. "You are also not an idiot."

That was something debatable, but Raylan didn't say that. "Well, what do you suggest?" It was the strangest conversation he thought he'd ever had and, for Raylan, that was saying something.

Yavneh got very serious then. "You should trust me."

Raylan couldn't even begin to process that.

Apparently, neither could Becky. "What?" To Raylan's dismay, her voice sounded weaker. "Why?"

Yavneh shrugged. "I wish to help you. My reasons are my own."

Her voice gained a little strength in her anger. "You watched while Eschel tor-...You weren't so keen to help me earlier."

A shadow, almost like sorrow crossed his face. "I am sorry. I-I cannot go against Miri, but I can...subvert her."

It didn't make sense to Raylan, but he was holding the woman he loved in his arms and he only saw one chance to get her out alive. "All right," he said, lowering his gun to wrap his arm under Becky's legs. He stood, wincing at her hiss of pain. "All right," he repeated. "I've got a man coming. We need to get out back the way I came."

Yavneh shook his head. "Miss Brett is badly injured; she's lost a lot of blood. It's a rough trek down to your meeting place and a rougher one to the nearest hospital. She would never survive."

Raylan felt him stomach drop. "Then what do I do?"

Yanveh shrugged. "What you and I do best."

"You know that mean I'll have to kill people. Your people."

"Things change," was all the Israeli man said in response.

Raylan didn't even try to understand that one. If this guy was for real on his loyalty flip-flop, Raylan was never gonna think Boyd's change was weird again. "Let's go." He followed the other man through the house into a bedroom. It was a Spartan room; only a bed, a dresser, and a window inside. And a woman.

Helen Bennet didn't seem surprised to see the two men and the bloody woman enter the room. "Put her on the bed," she said calmly.

Raylan got his first good look at Becky since he'd found her. "Oh shit, Becky," he said, pushing her hair back from her face with a slightly shaking hand.

Her usual, beautiful marble complexion was an ashy gray, except the warm, purple bruises blossoming like perverted flowers on her skin. Her lips were cracked and bloody. He was afraid to look at her stomach but he made himself. He cursed, feeling a little sick at the sight of the deep, deliberately painful cuts he knew would scar.

"Hey," she said quietly, covering his hand. "I don't think I'm falling in love with you anymore." That made him meet her eyes and bloody smile. "I know that I am."

He let out a sound he couldn't really identify. "You have really bad timing."

She laughed and it turned into a moan. "Might be my only chance."

"No," he said firmly. "You won't die. I'm going to save you."

"Then go do it," she said with that same smile.

He nodded and gave her the backup gun he'd taken from the dead man. "Hold on," he said kissing her brow.

Becky watched him leave than turned her face to Helen. "When are you due?"

The other woman startled. "How did you know that?"

Becky snorted and regretted it. "It was easy. You have tan lines on your fingers from your usual rings. You aren't wearing them now. Why? You have cracker crumbs on your collar. You're sleeping in the spare room furthest from the kitchen and the smells of food. What causes nausea, swollen fingers, and doesn't give any other indication of ill health? Pregnancy." Rattling off her deductions tired her instead of energizing her. She had a feeling that was a bad sign.

Helen smiled. "It all does seem simple when you explain it."

Becky frowned. "Next time, you deduce a stranger's intimate secrets then... Do you really think that you and Yavneh are going to live happily ever after?"

Helen startled again, but this time didn't ask Becky about her thought process. "Why not? Peter loves me?"

"Because...he's evil," Becky said slowly, like talking to a child.

Helen crossed her arms petulantly, only increasing the comparison. "My whole life I've been surrounded by evil men. Peter is the first to give a damn about what happens to me."

"Lady, you have problems."

"You have no idea what my life has been like!" Helen snapped furiously before losing her fire and collapsing on the bed, head in her hands. Her voice was pleading when she next spoke. "I've hurt anyone. Don't I deserve some happiness?"

"Probably," Becky said, not unkindly. "But Yavneh doesn't."

Before Helen could reply, someone started banging on the door. "Helen!" Larkin called. "Open the door."

"I've got a headache, Mitch," Helen said, not moving to the door.

"I don't care if you've got the plague," he said. "That bitch detective got out of the basement and we're searching the house."

Helen gave Becky a scared look, but her voice was admirably restrained. "Well, she's not here."

Larkin decided that it was easier to just break the door down than argue any longer.

Becky cocked the gun, aiming the way her Uncle John taught her. "Come on," she mumbled, "come on."

The bang of the door was echoed by the bang of a gunshot. The guy Larkin got to actually open it was dead before he hit the ground.

He was also familiar. Helen made a move to go to her dead husband and her living brother jerked her up as a shield.

"Gonna shoot me now, Bitch?" He crowed, unable to resist looking over the top of his sister's head and smirking.

"Actually...yes." Being a perfectionist living with a man who qualified as a British Royal Marine had its advantages.

Helen screamed when the bullet whizzed past her, then screamed again when her brother's dead weight took her to the floor.

"Shut up," Becky hissed, gritting her teeth against the pain and climbing out of bed to check the hallway for more goons. She didn't see anyone, so she dropped to her knees to riffle Larkin's pockets for a phone.

She found the sent box. "Bugger!" A text to two numbers with Raylan's approximate location. And that he was alone.

"Damn you, Yavneh," she mumbled, understanding his plan. She could either help Raylan or keep Yavneh and Helen from escaping together. She wasn't often outwitted, in fact, she could count on one _finger _the amount of times it had happened before.

It was an easy choice, despite the damage it did to her pride. "Helen, I am going to give you fair warning. If Yavneh ever does **anything **to hurt anyone ever again, I will find out. And I will make it my mission in life to destroy you both. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Helen said in a scared, quiet voice.

"Excellent." Becky checked the gun, tore a strip from the sheets to press against her wounds, and left.

While Becky was having her problems, Raylan was shedding some blood of his own. He was being followed by Peter Yavneh through the house. Two men came down the staircase. Before he had time to signal, Yavneh threw a knife into one man's eye socket.

He died instantly and without a sound.

Raylan followed it up with two gunshots to the chest of the other man who died just as quickly.

"You are scary," Raylan said with a genuine mixture of appreciation and disgust.

"Moussad takes killing very seriously," Yavneh said just as seriously. "Keep going."

Raylan nodded and took three steps forward, looked behind him, and saw that Yavneh was gone, just melted into the shadows. "Shit."

No choice but to go on.

He came to a hallway. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he knew, deep down in his gut, that something was going to happen. When he got to the middle, he saw a door in front of him open and heard one open behind him. He didn't have to look to know that there was man with a gun aimed at his head. But something was keeping him from shooting. So, Raylan paid no attention to anything but the door in front of him.

Miri Eschel was a beautiful woman, but her eyes were dead. If Raylan had been a weaker man, he would have shivered. She was horrifying.

"Hello, Givens," she said with a smile as cold as her eyes.

Raylan raised his gun and the grin widened, revealing white teeth. It was a feral, dangerous thing that reminded him of Becky's in some twisted way.

"If you shoot me, then my friend will blow your head off, find Becky, and have some...fun with her in her final moments. If you turn to kill him, then I will shoot you and play with her myself."

Raylan only lowered his gun a fraction but he lowered. If he could get Eschel distracted, he could take them both out. "Why don't you just kill me now?"

Eschel shrugged. "Pleasure."

Raylan heard the crash coming from behind him and didn't think, didn't look, didn't do anything but react.

He regretted a little that Eschel's death hadn't lasted longer but then he was spinning on the balls of his feet into a crouch and aiming at the other gunman. Then he was shooting, hitting him in the heart twice.

The whole process took less than five seconds.

He looked over and saw Becky slumped against the wall, a vase shattered at her feet, eyes closed.

"Becky!" He was at her side in an instant. "Becky?" He cradled her body gently. "Talk to me."

"Sometimes," she said quietly, with the ghost of a smile. "My timing is impeccable." Then her head lolled back and her body went limp.


	13. I'll Rest When I'm Dead

AN: This is the next to last chapter. One more and then I will be giving you an epilogue. I will be sorry to see this story end. And, SpadesJade, I actually did mean to have more of Eschel but my brain refused to tell me what to say so I compromised. Thank you JustWhelmed for being awesome.

Disclaimer: I only own Becky.

The first thing of which Becky became aware was a steady, irritating beeping. She could smell antiseptic. There was a heavy feeling in her limbs and her mind, even her eyelids felt weighted down. She finally managed to open them and the first thing she saw was a very familiar hat, resting on a plastic nightstand.

She cast her eyes down the line of her body; down the hospital sheets, to the hand resting lightly on her thigh. It was connected to the man currently sleeping in the awkward position of head on the bed and ass in plastic seat.

He had dark circles under his eyes and a couple of days' worth of slightly gray scruff. He should have looked awful. He didn't. It really wasn't fair, Becky mused, for someone to be so good looking all of the time. Shouldn't he at least drool like normal people? Becky knew that she drooled and she was even less normal than Raylan. She had a moment to look up at her IV drip and wonder what they gave her before the door opened.

"You're awake," Rachel said with a smile. "How do you feel?"

"I don't like it," she answered. "I don't know how I got here or how long ago. I should be able to tell that." Her tongue was heavy in her mouth and difficult to work. She didn't like that either.

"I can tell you that." Rachel smiled, looking so happy to be giving Becky information that Becky thought that her body hadn't been lying to her when she thought she was dying. "Apparently, you passed out from the blood loss and Raylan called 911." They both looked at the sleeping man. "That was two days ago. This is the first sleep he's had since."

"He's in a new shirt," Becky realized, wondering why it took her so long. "Didn't he leave when the doctors said I would pull through?"

Rachel snorted. "No. I had to bring him a change of clothes. He refused to leave until you woke up." Becky found that touching, but before she could comment, Rachel was looking at her with very serious eyes. "He's a good friend of mine, Becky, and I thank you. That was a very brave thing you were willing to do for him."

Becky found the tears that sprang into her eyes ridiculous and she decided to disconnect her IV before she could turn into any more of a sniveling mess. She shifted slightly it an attempt to better reach the tube, and that seemed to be enough to wake Raylan.

He looked up and saw her reaching for the needle. "Woah, woah, hold up," he said instantly, on his feet even. "What are you doing?"

"Don't like these drugs," Becky said. "They interfere with my brain."

"Then we'll call the nurse," he replied, holding onto her hands. "Don't rip out the medically placed needles." He moved one hand to her cheek and suddenly Rachel had gone from watching a slightly humorous moment to watching an intently private one.

"I'll go get Art and Dr. Warren," she said, quietly leaving the room, knowing they wouldn't notice.

They didn't.

"You look good," he said, tracing the still healing split in her lip and the yellowing bruise on her jaw.

She snorted. "I look like death warmed over."

"You look alive," he corrected, kissing her forehead, then pulling back to look her in the eye. "Don't you ever do anything like that again or I will kill you myself."

She smiled. "Wouldn't that be counterproductive?" She grew serious again and her hand squeezed his lightly. "I lead a dangerous life, Raylan. Just like you. I won't ask you to stop being a Marshal and you can't ask me to stop taking risks. This is my job."

Raylan nodded, wanting to pull her close but afraid to. "I know. But, god, Becky, just, promise me that you won't ever put yourself in that sort of position again. That wasn't taking risks. That was attempting suicide." He kissed her palm. "I thought I was gonna have to bury you."

"I thought you weren't going to have a body to bury," she said honestly, cupping her fingers around his jaw. "I don't want to leave you, Raylan. I thought I had to."

Art knocked on the door just then, breaking the trance. He didn't wait for an invitation, just walked on in followed by the doctor.

The doctor was a nice looking, older man, with more lines and fewer grays than Raylan. He had one of those warm smiles that were only found in the medical field. "Well, young lady, I am glad to see you alert. How are you feeling?"

"Fuzzy," she complained. "I don't like it. I want off of the pain medication."

"I'd advise against that," Dr. Warren warned. "You've sustained several traumatic injuries. It may not seem like it now, but if I remove the morphine drip, you will feel each and every one."

"I know what injuries I received," she said stubbornly. "I was there when I received them. However, I am completely unable to control my thought process and it is driving me into the loony bin. Turn off the drip."

The doctor nodded. "I am still advising against it. However, it's your legal right, so give me a minute and I'll unhook the bag." He checked her vitals and asked a few basic health questions, then did as she requested.

It was only a few minutes before the group saw her mouth tighten and her eyes clear. "Thank you, Doctor," she said before turning her head towards Art in a dismissal. "What are your questions?"

"Not the most stunning deduction you've favored us with," Art chuckled. "First, what the hell were you thinking?"

"That's hardly a professional tone," she teased.

Art was in no mood for that. "That's because it wasn't an official question! You nearly got yourself killed! And you put our investigation at risk!"

"No I didn't," she said quietly. "I strengthened it. I left forensic evidence along the way and I left you directions in Raylan's note."

"Yes, I heard about that. You told us to use the wife. That's not exactly specific or even all that helpful, thanks," he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. In truth, he was angry for two reasons. One, she had put his case at risk. Two, he hated seeing her in that hospital bed. Becky, whom he had actually gotten very fond of, was the kind of person, energetic and brilliant like no one he'd ever met, that made others see them as immortal. He did not appreciate this proof that she was not.

"What would you have done if Raylan had actually acted in a sane manner and gone to you for backup?" Becky asked, shooting Raylan a look of affection mixed with frustration.

Art crossed his arms and thought about it. "Honestly, I would have hoped to find you living, but assumed that you weren't. Not very nice of me, I know."

Becky shrugged and winced. "Nice is boring and unproductive."

"Right. Well..." That sort of attitude was somewhat unsettling. At least her feelings weren't hurt. "We would have staked out the house, probably gotten Tim to do it, and waited until an opportune moment, probably creating one if too much time passed. Then I would have sent Raylan and Rachel to talk to Mrs. Bennet."

"She would have immediately helped you," Becky assured him. "It was a crude plan with many variables, but it would have worked."

"You can't possible have known that's what I would do," Art protested. "Or that Helen Bennet would have helped. That was just a hunch. You didn't know that."

Becky just smiled.

Art threw his hands up in the air in disgust. "I give up on you and your predictions and your theories and all of it. Between you and Raylan, I am going to keel over from a heart attack before I'm an old man!"

"Little late for that," Raylan chimed in.

Art just glared at him. "Give me a report," he said, pulling a tape recorder from his pocket, clearly exasperated. "From the time that you and Raylan called Boyd, until he found you in the Bennet's basement."

She nodded. "When we hung up with Boyd, Raylan went in to take a shower."

"Do you want to know what I did in there?" Raylan asked with a smile, a little too tired to watch his mouth.

"Stop being a smartass and let the lady tell her story," Art practically growled.

Becky gave a small smile and continued. It was a long interview. She told them about the second conversation she had with Boyd while Raylan thought she was only ordering pizza. She talked about writing the note and sneaking out to join Boyd in his truck. (She neglected to mention what she and Raylan did between those two sets of events).

"He drove me up to Larkin's front porch, taking a break to tie my hands together. He held a gun to my head and asked to be let back into the trade, said that he'd wasted the Black Pike money on online poker. He claimed to have brought me as a sign of good faith."

"And Larkin believed him?" Art asked skeptically.

"He acted it well," Becky said, pointing to the bruise on her jaw.

Raylan made a low sound deep in his throat that she ignored. "Larkin wanted to just take me himself, but Boyd demanded to speak with Eschel, said he was afraid that she would muscle her way in on his deal. He claimed that you lot were waiting on a phone call and that if he didn't make it you would all come straight there."

"Smart," Art admitted grudgingly.

"I know," Becky said matter-of-factly. "I thought of it. When Eschel got there, she and Larkin disappeared for a few moments, to talk terms I believe. Eschel vowed, upon return, to abide by Larkin's deal and then she took me into the basement..." She trailed off and looked at them from under her lashes, biting her lip slightly. "Do I really have to go into details there?"

"No," Art said softly. "We read the doctor's report."

Raylan closed his eyes, trying to both remember and forget at the same time; three cracked ribs, multiple contusions all over her body and several lacerations on her abdomen made with a thin, jagged blade.

"After that, I suppose that I passed out." She said it like she was admitting a weakness. "Because suddenly Raylan was there." They shared a look that did not go unnoticed by Art, but he already figured out that they were screwing so he didn't concern himself with it.

He did, however, concern himself with the way that the lines of pain and exhaustion were deepening on her face. "Almost done, Becky," he said kindly. "I just need you to tell me what happened from the time that Raylan left you until you shot Eschel's henchman."

She did, as quickly as possible. Her entire body relaxed somewhat when she was done.

"Good job, Becky," Raylan said, stroking her hand softly. "Try to get some sleep, okay." He removed his hand, only to have her grab it.

"Stay with me?" She sounded like a hurt, scared, little girl. It was probably the most vulnerable she had ever looked in her entire life.

"I gotta go with Art now, Becky," he said softly, pulling his hand away a little. "But I will be right back, I promise."

The two men stepped just outside the room door. "What are we gonna do about Yavneh?" Raylan asked.

Art ran his hand over his scalp. "Alert everybody I guess. There's not much else we can do. This guy, Becky's the only one who's got a chance and she's kinda out of commission right now."

"Yeah, she is," Raylan agreed, glancing through the door at her.

"Look, Raylan, are you ever going to start listening to me?" Art was tired. He wanted was to go home and kiss his wife and argue over what to get his grand-daughter for her birthday. He wanted Raylan to have the same thing one day, but the man had the relationship sense of a randy horse.

"What are you talking about?" Raylan asked, feigning innocence.

"Don't give me that. I know you're sleeping together. I know that you both feel more than that. Have you actually talked about it?"

"Plannin' on it," Raylan answered.

"Good." He patted Raylan's shoulder. "Don't screw this one up. This is the best thing you are ever gonna get."

"I'm gonna do my best."

"Your best sucks usually. Do someone else's best." With that cheerful note, Art took his leave.

Raylan took a deep breath and re-entered her room.

"I'm not asleep yet," she said at the sound of the door. "Art knows about us. Even an idiot would."

"He told me not to screw it up." He sat at the edge of her bed and ran his hands over his eyes.

"Sound advice." She opened her eyes and fixed him with that almost supernaturally intense gaze. "That is, if you want to pursue this."

"I just stormed the castle for you... What did you think that meant?"

"Pride, duty, obligation, masochism, the list goes on." She smiled. "You're something of a mystery to me, Raylan. It's one reason why I like you."

"I love you," he said honestly. "I won't say it often. I'll be faithful and moody and I have a temper, but I won't hurt you. I'm not good at soft."

"Neither am I," she assured him. "I'm often sulky and temperamental and my social graces are almost non-existent."

"Really?" He smiled when she smacked him weakly. "But I'll be faithful for as long as we're together."

"How long were you thinking that might be?"

"A lifetime if you'll have me."

She closed her eyes and grinned. "That might be the smartest idea you've ever had."

"I can agree with that." He kissed the tip of her nose. "I meant what I said earlier, about you getting some sleep."

"Sleep with me?" She asked.

He laughed, toed of his boots, and lay on his side next to her on the surprisingly wide bed. "That may be the smartest idea you've ever had."

"Not likely."

"Shut up and go to sleep."


	14. All My Blessings are Fed

AN: Final chapter folks :) Stay tuned for an epilogue though because I can't help myself. Thank you for sticking so loyally to my little story here. I had no idea that it would be so well received. And thank you JustWhelmed for sticking by me and putting up with my horrible typing skills.

Disclaimer: I only own Becky.

Turns out that Becky's immune system was compromised by the massive blood loss and being sliced open with unsanitized blades by terrorists completely unconcerned about her health. As a result, she had a difficult time resisting the basic bugs constantly floating around hospitals. As a result of that...she contracted a stomach virus that had her puking into a bucket and delayed her leaving the hospital by about a week.

At least, it should have.

Becky was, without a doubt, the most stubborn person on the face of the planet and, when she heard that she was going to be trapped in the hospital for a week, she pitched, in Raylan's words, "an unholy fit."

The doctors had to let her go, although Raylan thought they may have been considering having her declared mentally unstable, only under the promise that she would stay in bed.

"I hate this," she mumbled on the third day back in Raylan's hotel room. He was next to her on the bed, holding her hair back from where she was leaning over a mop bucket. "I really bloody hate this."

He didn't know what to say, so he made a vaguely comforting noise and wiped her forehead off with a damp washcloth, then took the bucket into the bathroom and filled it with soapy water for the third time that day. Mostly she was dry heaving, but Raylan cleaned up each time just to avoid extra germs.

It was a testament to how badly she felt, that Becky let him do it.

"I'm so bloody bored," she complained, leaning back against the pillows. "Give me murder, arson, armed robbery...ANYTHING! All I have is crap telly."

"And me," Raylan said, sitting back down next to her. It was an interesting thing. When Becky got sick, she got cold. She was bundled up in a sweater and flannel pants and two blankets and he was walking around in a wife beater and boxers.

"Raylan," she said seriously. "I love you dearly and you are much less boring than the general population...But no amount of conversation is going to keep my mind from stagnation for long. I NEED puzzles, something to solve. My brain is going to ROT OUT OF MY SKULL!"

He chuckled, completely unoffended. He knew it was mean of him to think that her sulking was funny, but he couldn't help it. She was sitting wrapped up like a baby, holding a teddy bear, and demanding a homicide for amusement. There was something completely surreal and funny.

"You got more flowers today," he said, pointing to the vases that had come in while she was napping.

"I noticed."

"Of course you did..."

Raylan didn't know how all of these people knew that she was feeling badly. Or how they had his address come to think of it. But the flowers, mostly from grateful clients, kept coming in. It made him somewhat proud.

No one really came to visit though, which Raylan could understand. Bored Becky was...intense. It took her two days in the hospital to figure out how to think around the drugs. (When the vomiting added to the cracked ribs, she had finally caved in and taken the pills) but then she had demanded his gun in order to shoot designs into the walls. He had refused, but the request had scared the nurses shitless.

"You also got a couple of packages." He had deliberately hidden them so that he could surprise her with them.

Her eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas. She held her hands out in the universal sign of gimme..

He smiled indulgently and retrieved them from under the bed. One was actually a large packing envelope and the other was a largish box. They were both postmarked from England. "Uhm...Scotland Yard or Baker Street?"

"The Yard please."

He handed her the envelope. She dumped the three cards out on the bed, as well as what looked like two files. She opened one card, a typical cheesy get-well-soon card with a multitude of signatures. She scanned them, then snorted. "It was a nice thought, Dimmok, but, really? Anderson and Donovan?" She pointed out two tiny names in the lower left corner. "He shouldn't made the tossers sign. Donovan, her name for me is Freak Junior and, no, it is not a misguided term of endearment. And Anderson has accused me seriously of murder no less than four times." She tossed the card to the floor. "Arrogant sods."

Raylan knew that Becky was extremely odd, but Junior Freak was overstepping a line. "I don't think you're a freak," he said, kissing her forehead.

"I know that," she said matter-of-factly, unable to completely hide the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She opened the second and the smile grew a little, despite the sickingly sweet picture of a puppy in a lab coat on the card itself. "Molly hopes I feel better and says that she's keeping something interesting in the fridge for me for my next visit home."

"Molly?"

"She works at the morgue and is a little in love with Uncle Sherlock."

"And she's keeping something in the freezer for you?" Raylan couldn't help but be a little disturbed by that thought.

Becky apparently missed his distress completely because she was already on the last card. It was a plain piece of white paper, folded into card shape. Inside it read. "Don't drive anyone, including yourself, into the loony bin. I know what boredom does to the Holmes family. Here are two case files from the office...burglary ring and mail fraud. -G. Lestrade" She actually laughed out loud and placed the last two cards, and the files, on the nightstand carefully.

Raylan recognized the name Lestrade and made a mental note to thank the man if he ever met him.

Becky then greedily tugged the box closer and ripped off the tape. The first thing she pulled out was a tattered fleece blanket. It certainly had seen better days; it was ripped and stained, but she spread it out like it was a treasured possession. Given the state of all of her non-business clothes, it probably was. "This is from Mrs. Hudson," she explained. "So is this." She placed a Union Jack embroidered pillow on the bed next to her.

She pulled out some boxes of tea and three cans of cookies labeled "Burton's Digestives" and a large jar of raspberry jam. "The Doctor in Uncle John is coming out," she said fondly.

"How so?"

"He knows that my stomach's upset and so he sent these. They're called Digestives because they are easy to digest. And my favorite jam so that I will actually eat them." She smiled and put them next to her. "Always looking out for me."

Raylan wasted no time in opening a tin and the jar and spreading the jam over a cookie cracker thing and handing it to her.

She ate it without comment.

It was the first thing she'd willingly eaten in three days.

If it actually stayed down, Raylan was going to recommend John Watson for sainthood.

Becky pulled out a black and white striped sweater and her already fond smile got even softer. "This is his favorite jumper. His gran bought it for him just before she died. He doesn't know that I know that of course..." She put it on OVER the sweater she was already wearing and turned her attention back to the box. "Cromwell!"

She pulled out a bleached white, grinning, human skull.

"That's a skull," Raylan said, slightly dumbfounded.

"Yes." She smiled and ran an affectionate hand over the cranium. "He was Uncle Sherlock's first flatmate. We both think better if we talk out loud, even if the audience doesn't reply." She tossed the skull a little and caught it, still grinning like a maniac. "This was such a sweet present!"

"Suuuure..."

She missed that sarcasm completely and climbed out of bed carefully to walk over to the table opposite the bed and place the skull in a place of high honor. It creeped Raylan out a little but he thought he could get used to it when she turned and beamed at him.

"Did you not get anything from your father?" he asked cautiously.

"How do you think people got my address and knew that I was sick?" she asked flippantly, easing herself back under all of the blankets.

"What does your father do again?"

She frowned. "Well...You've heard of the British government right? And the British secret service?"

"Yeeees..."

"That's what he does."

He would have thought she was exaggerating but something told him that she wasn't. "What have I got myself into?" he mumbled, ruffling her curls affectionately. Didn't matter. It was worth it.

"Hold on," she said, reaching into the box one last time. "I spoke too soon."

Raylan cringed, wondering what macabre artifact she was going to pull out next, but all she had were too pieces of paper. "What're those?"

"Tickets," she said quietly. "Two first class tickets home." She looked up at Raylan. "Will you come with me?"

Part of him wanted to baulk that it was too soon, too early, but one look down at those gray eyes and he knew that it wasn't. "Be glad too. Promise you won't make me eat anything weird."

"By whose standards? You Americans are so picky."

"Says the woman who refuses to drink coffee," he shot back, taking a good long look at her.

This was his life now. This beautiful, breathtakingly brilliant woman wrapped up like a kitten in yarn with tea and cookies and police files and a pet skull named Cromwell. It was never what he thought he would want and everything he never asked for.

And, Raylan thought, sliding into bed next to her, I'm ok with that.


	15. 221 B, Baker Street

AN: Thank you to everyone who stuck with this story. It was so much fun to right and my readers made it even more so. Thank you JustWhelmed for being such a great beta for this. (teensey reference to one of my favorite Conan Doyle Sherlock stories...) Oh, and, SpadesJade, Raylan and Becky are only making a visit. He's still a Marshal and she's still...Becky.

Disclaimer: Again, for the last time, I only own Becky.

For the first time in his life, Raylan regretted getting off an airplane. He had two reasons. One, Becky was a lot of fun on a flight; several hours in close quarters with other people meant that her observations were incredibly detailed, personal, and _funny_. When she started whispering about the man three seats up and to the left who liked to have his wife paint his toenails, Raylan thought he would burst something in an effort to keep from laughing. Two, he was nervous. He was in London on a two week visit, hailing a cab that was driving in the wrong side of the road, and going to meet Becky's family. He had not met Wynona's family until the wedding. True, he and Becky were looking for an apartment in Lexington together and he was trying to figure out a way to buy a diamond ring without his genius lover finding it out but still.

It had only been two months!

Mrs. Hudson was almost exactly the way he had pictured her-down to the God-Aweful shade of purple she was wearing. The apartment, or "flat", as Becky called it, was the same too. It was a strange combination of chaos and cleanliness. The medical books and cheap paperbacks were arranged carefully on a desk, yet there was a knife stabbed through a stack of letters on the mantle and a mess of files and newspapers spread across the floor. Some of the clothes were hung up on the coatracks neatly, but they were things like shirts, pants, and a pair of boxers. There were nice prints of flowers on the walls, along with a couple of portraits of people Raylan thought he recognized as serial killers. He was less worried about his hat, resting on the table, sticking out like a sore thumb.

Becky was still entertaining Mrs. Hudson with stories of strange things Americans got up to ("They drink their beer cold!") when Raylan noticed two photographs tucked behind a picture of tulips. One was of a teenage Becky and a short, sandy-haired man with a button nose. Becky was in a cap and gown and the man was in a suit and both were standing there awkwardly, his hand on her elbow in some sort of semi-affectionate gesture. Neither seemed aware of the photographer. The second picture was of the same two people, both a little older, Becky again in a cap and gown, both still seemingly unaware of the camera. This time, however, they were both smiling, with Becky's arm around him in a blatantly affectionate gesture.

"My graduations," Becky said, coming up behind him to peer over his shoulder. "From my Sixth Form school and then from Oxford." She smiled. "Uncle John and I got much closer over the four years."

"You never told me that you went to Oxford," Raylan said, not surprised that she had gone, more that it had never come up.

She shrugged. "Chemistry."

"Naturally," he said with a smile. "Why were these hiding behind the painting?"

"Because Uncle Sherlock doesn't want anyone to know that he indulges in such maudlin and boring fits of sentiment," she said, gently touching the edge of one picture. "Uncle John and I pretend that we don't know that he has them and he lets us pretend."

Raylan smiled and put them back where he found them.

At least, he thought he did. Becky reached out and moved them approximately half a centimeter. "I would notice."

He laughed and put his hands on her hips, pulling her in for a kiss. They stepped a little away from each other when the front door opened.

There were footsteps on the stairs and then the door was opened by the same sandy-haired man from the pictures. He was unassuming in his gray sweater over the green button up and the plastic container in his arms, which he set down immediately when he saw them.

"Becky!" He had a nice face and one of the warmest smiles Raylan had ever seen.

"Hello, Uncle John," she said as she allowed herself to be pulled into a hug.

"You didn't tell me that you were coming," he chided, smile never leaving his face as he pulled away to look at her critically. "You look fairly recovered. Any soreness still?"

"No, and I know, that was the point," she said with a mischievous smile.

"Doesn't matter, it's always good to see you." He turned to Raylan with a smile only slightly less warm than the one he had for his niece. "And your friend."

"This is Raylan Givens," Becky said, beaming at him in a way that made his insides pleasantly warm. "Raylan, this is my Uncle, Dr. John Watson."

"Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson," he said, a little surprised by the strength of the grip.

"Pleasure's mine and it's John." He turned back to Becky. "We can get your old room ready, I think we have some spare sheets in my kit."

"Already on it, Dearie," said Mrs. Hudson, coming up the stairs with a tea tray. "Is that bed going to be big enough for the two of you?"

"'Two?'" John suddenly remembered the sex that usually went with committed relationships and gave Raylan a hard look that was even more surprising than the handshake. It was so easy to forget upon meeting the man that he was a Captain in Afghanistan. Raylan kept his gaze. He did not issue his own challenge, just met the one already in the air. He had a feeling that he passed some sort of test when the gaze softened.

"You forgot milk, Mrs. Hudson," John said, nodding at the tray. "We actually have some for once. And I need to get Sherlock a mug, he should be back soon." He smiled at Becky. "And I think I have some of those chocolate hobnobs you're so fond of."

Raylan may consider himself a badass Marshal, but he was also born and bred in Kentucky, where being an unhelpful guest was a deadly sin. "Let me help with that."

"Thanks," John said, pointing at the container he had brought with him. "That needs to go in the freezer apparently. Do you mind to get it?"

The plastic container was opaque and had a lab's markings. "What's in this thing?" Raylan asked when they entered the kitchen, smiling a little at the chemistry set spread all over the table. Becky's was in storage apparently, but he knew that it would be all over their table when they finally found a place.

"I don't know, but Sherlock had me pick it up from St. Barts', so I'm not sure that I want to" John said, standing on tiptoes to reach something on the top shelf of the cabinets. Raylan thought about offering to help, but did not want to hurt the man's pride. "Damn. Where did Sherlock put the bloody things?"

Since Raylan had no idea where anything was in relation to anything else in their kitchen, he decided to hunt for the milk. The odds of it being anywhere but the fridge was unlikely. He opened the door and then quickly shut it. "You have a severed head in the fridge," he said, with an admirable calmness for a man who had just discovered a human head sitting on a plate in his host's fridge.

"Really?" John asked, at last locating a box of chocolate pastries with a pleased expression. "I wonder what the hell Sherlock is doing with one this time?"

"'This time?...'" Raylan trailed off, then threw his head back and laughed, laughed until it hurt. "How long do you think it will be until Becky starts up with that?"

"Couple of months after getting settled," John said, watching Raylan's outburst with an amused, almost sympathetic, expression.

Raylan chuckled. "Best get used to it then." He reopened the fridge and reached past the head to get to the milk. "Sorry, buddy."

He caught John's eye and it felt like he had passed another test. For some reason, the man's approval meant something to him.

Becky gave Raylan a questioning look when the men re-entered the room, but she did not interrupt Mrs. Hudson's stream of chatter to ask about the sounds from the kitchen. Instead, she handed him a cup of tea exactly the way he was beginning to like it, half a teaspoon of sugar and nothing else, fingers brushing against his.

They had been seated for a few minutes when the downstairs door slammed open. There were the sounds of running feet on the stairs and seconds later, the sitting room door opened with such a vengeance that the coat rack shook. Without missing a beat, John poured tea, milk, and sugar into the cup he had brought from the kitchen.

The man who had made such a violent entrance was tall, dark haired, and impeccably dressed, with aristocratic features and an expression like lightening in a bottle. He was so much like Becky that it was startling.

He did not look at all surprised to see his niece, but, if he really had been who taught her, then he probably knew she was there from an inspection of the door handle or something.

He walked more sedately and gracefully than Raylan would have thought possible over to the table, where he drank the mug of practically scalding tea in two gulps. His fingers brushed over Becky's shoulder in what she seemed to think was an affectionate gesture. "Good to have you home," he said with a softening look around his gray eyes. "Even if it's only for a fortnight."

"Good to be here," she said with an almost identical expression, her own hand briefly touching his sleeve.

Sherlock Holmes did not wait for an introduction, instead turning to Raylan with his own hand extended. "You must be Marshal Givens." The shake was firm as well, but much shorter than a normal handshake.

"Raylan."

"Sherlock."

With that, he dismissed the Marshal and turned back to his niece. "Lestrade has a case," he said, barely contained excitement bubbling under the surface of his skin.

"What kind?" Becky said, pulling on the shoes that Raylan had not even noticed she had removed, before she got an answer.

"Four burglaries, nothing but statues of Napoleon stolen, destroyed at the scene." He bounced on his heels for a moment, like he was holding back. "Murder at the latest one."

Becky smiled and stood. "Sounds like Christmas."

The two of them started toward the door, only to turn back to John and Raylan.

"Coming?" Becky asked expectantly.

"It's on," Sherlock added, giving John a look.

John and Raylan shared a smile and stood simultaneously. They followed the other two, Raylan dragging behind a little to get his hat.

"What's on?" he asked when he joined the group.

"The Game!"


End file.
